


After Atlantis

by anon_decepticon



Category: Transformers, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Angst, Drama, Ensemble Cast, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Plug and Play, Robot Sex, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-05-26
Updated: 2010-07-09
Packaged: 2017-10-09 17:51:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/89996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anon_decepticon/pseuds/anon_decepticon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A behind-the-scenes, alternate-interpretation ending of the G1 episode <i>"Atlantis, Arise."</i> What exactly was Starscream up to in that scene where he plugs into Wheeljack? How will Wheeljack cope in the aftermath of his assault? Contains non-con in Chapter 1 and deals extensively with rape survivor psychology thereafter, including realistic depictions of PTSD, sexual dysfunction and the emotional impact of rape upon friends and loved ones. NOT your standard rapefic. Portions may be triggering; please read with caution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Assault

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers. This chapter contains canon references to the G1 cartoon episode "Atlantis, Arise!" Additional episodes will be referenced in future chapters.   
> **Chapter Warnings:** Nonviolent non-con.

**Chapter 1: Assault **

Someone was touching him.

The awareness crept slowly into Wheeljack's processor, trickling back through a myriad of external sensors alongside assorted other observations: He was lying face down, his optics were offline, his motor relays were not responding, and _someone was touching him_.

He wanted to online his optics, to turn his helm and see who it was, what they were doing. But that ray that Nergill had used on him had done something to his circuits. He wasn't sure what – yet – but the long and short of it was that he couldn't move a micrometer.

He knew because he'd tried. The Sub-Atlantican ruler had laughed at his efforts, and gloated that his new weapon would spell the doom of all Cybertronians, Autobot and Decepticon alike. He had to warn Prime! If only he could move..!

Maybe it was already too late. He couldn't tell how long he'd been offline. His internal chronometer was glitched. So were his diagnostics. He couldn't tell how damaged he was. All he knew for certain was that he was lying facedown, blind, unable to move, and _someone was still touching him._

It might have been Nergill himself. After claiming Wheeljack as his prisoner, the strange aquatic humanoid had subjected him to numerous scans and probes – an experience only slightly less invasive than one of Ratchet's maintenance exams – in order to learn more about Cybertronian anatomy. So that he could invent that ray he'd blasted Wheeljack with.

But why continue to study him when it was readily apparent that the invention was a success? It wasn't logical. And Wheeljack found it hard to believe that it was Nergill touching him anyway – for one thing, the presence he sensed felt much larger, and for another, the continued touches were strangely...clumsy. He didn't know what to make of it. Whoever was touching him seemed both tentative and determined all at once. Persistent, yet awkward.

What was it? _Who_ was it? What did they want with him? An Autobot rescuer would speak. A Decepticon wouldn't be so gentle. A Sub-Atlantican or human wouldn't be so large.

No, he was sure of it now. Hands. It was definitely _hands_ scraping across his backstruts, pawing at him. Large, metal hands. Cybertronian hands.

His optics abruptly onlined when one of those hands suddenly seized hold of his shoulder and tugged, hard. He was rewarded with a very close-up and heavily static-laden view of the floor. Another firm tug, and he realized that whoever-it-was was trying to turn him over, and had been for several kliks now.

And now at last they succeeded, flipping him onto his back with a jolting crash and half-falling across his chestplate in the process. Wheeljack's spark leapt in its chamber as he struggled to focus his damaged optics on his rescuer, frustrated by his inability to vocalize his gratitude –

The dark faceplate and scarlet optics glaring balefully down at him were unmistakable. His "rescuer" was the Decepticon Air Commander, Starscream.

* * *

Wheeljack didn't like the look Starscream was giving him. It was cold, calculating...malicious. He wouldn't have liked it under any circumstances, but he especially didn't like it when he was so utterly defenseless. Being unable to move, unable to speak, barely able to see, and having a Decepticon looming over him like that, _staring_ – it was the stuff of nightmares.

Threats to his existence had never really frightened Wheeljack. He risked himself all the time, readily – carelessly even, if Ratchet's frequent scoldings were to be believed. Whether it be in pursuit of some new invention, or to protect someone else, he never hesitated.

But he was frightened now. His spark had contracted painfully, and if he'd been able to move, he'd surely have been trembling. Was it _because_ he couldn't move, couldn't act? Probably.

Starscream was scratching at his chestplate now, still strangely clumsy, as if he couldn't completely control his fingers. Was Starscream damaged as well? Had he also been hit by Nergill's Magnetic Dysfunction Ray? Was he now silently asking Wheeljack for help? Suggesting they work together to escape alive and warn their comrades?

_He was opening his chestplate_.

Those clumsy, groping fingers had sought out and found the latches and triggered them, opening him up. His spark chamber was laid bare, exposed to the world. Internally Wheeljack keened in terror. Just what was Starscream planning to _do_ to him?

His optics fuzzed over with static and blanked out for 6.5 astroseconds. When they cleared – or rather, returned to their previous blurry-but-semifunctional status – he saw that Starscream was now gripping an interface cable in one unsteady hand.

_Oh, no_.

Oh_, sweet Primus,_ NO.

His servos whined as he strained to move, to struggle, to flee, _anything_. Anything to escape what was coming.

He couldn't move. His spark chamber was exposed. And Starscream was plugging in to him.

* * *

_He_ _could feel him_.

He could _feel_ Starscream inside him, poking around, invading his processor. His fuel tank churned, wanting to purge its contents. Underneath the easygoing exterior, Wheeljack was a very private mech. He couldn't remember the last time he'd interfaced – it had been prior to their arrival on Earth, so at least 4 million years – but he was certain it hadn't involved an uplink. A little frame foreplay, a little field manipulation, sure, but Wheeljack didn't uplink with just anybody. He had to fully _trust_ someone before he'd allow them direct access his systems.

And now Starscream, arguably the _least_ trustworthy mech in the known universe, was plugged into him. He wanted to flee. He wanted to purge. He wanted to recoil in revulsion. He wanted to shout in denial. Most of all, he wanted to rip that violating plug out of his intimate access port and expel that hideous _presence_ from his processor.

But he couldn't move. He couldn't fight. He couldn't escape. He couldn't even scream.

He fought back the only way he could, by bolstering his firewalls, striving frantically to defend his core programming and his most private memory files - but Nergill's ray had wreaked havoc on all his systems, and his damaged circuits were functioning with all the sluggish speed of a human's dial-up internet connection. There was no way Wheeljack would be fast enough to keep Starscream out once the Decepticon began to hack him in earnest.

The realization terrified him almost beyond thought, causing his processor to lock up for a few kliks. Panic seized him. He was trapped. Helpless. His spark pulsed wildly, as frantic as a cornered animal that knows a hungry predator is closing in...

...

Nothing happened.

...

Nothing was still happening.

Starscream was still plugged in to him; Wheeljack could feel his unwelcome presence looming in his processor. But instead of initiating a swift and relentless assault on his CPU, tearing down his firewalls and hacking his way into Wheeljack's memory core, Starscream's presence merely…hovered, seemingly content to linger at the very outermost edges of his consciousness, like a black cloud on a distant horizon.

Wheeljack wasn't sure if that was better, or worse.

_What_ _was he waiting for?_

* * *

A creeping thread of cruel amusement slithered over the link as Starscream finally spoke. "I can feel your fear, Autobot."

With a sound of shifting metal and scraping glass, Starscream's weight settled more decisively on top of him. A slow finger traced its way along the outside of his spark chamber with mock tenderness, and Wheeljack keened internally, conflicted by the uncertain shiver of arousal the touch produced and the horrified revulsion he felt towards its source. He didn't want _Starscream_ touching him that way.

Starscream's energy field flared, washing over him, making his damaged circuits tingle. It felt...good. It shouldn't feel good, he didn't _want_ it to feel good – his spark quailed in horror even as his core temperature spiked. Starscream's hands were moving over his frame, delving into seams, tweaking wires, and all the while his energy field thrust and probed, mingling with Wheeljack's, teasing yet implacable.

"Relax," Starscream purred malevolently. "Trust me, you're going to _enjoy_ this."

Wheeljack's entire frame trembled as he struggled to move, to protest, to do _something_, Primus, _anything_ to stop what was happening to him. His own body, his own circuits had betrayed him – first by refusing to obey his commands to fight or flee, and now again as they reacted compliantly to the invasive, unwanted, and all-too-skillful ministrations of his foe.

It was horrible. It was _humiliating_. Starscream was touching him in ways only a lover should, ways the Decepticon had absolutely no _right_ to, and Wheeljack's treacherous systems were _responding_ to those efforts, responding in spite of his terror and disgust. His core temperature was steadily increasing, rising rapidly to unsustainable levels, his systems quivering on the brink of overload...

"That's it," Starscream hissed, rubbing his cockpit against him, continuing to push him closer and closer to the edge, his energy field pulsating hard and fast. "Just a little more..."

_No, please, I don't want this, please, stop –_

"Come on, Autobot. Give it up, give it up for me..."

Wheeljack tried to resist, he _tried_, but he couldn't hold it back. Circuits sparking, CPU consumed by defeated despair, he overloaded, his immobilized frame jerking minutely as the abhorrent pleasure tore through him in wave after sweeping wave. Above him, Starscream rocked back as the resulting energy surge blasted across the connection and slammed into him, blazing a searing path through his circuitry.

Reeling in post-overload haze, sickened by shame, Wheeljack once more became aware of Starscream's presence still lurking at the outer fringes of his consciousness. It dawned on him then that in spite of Starscream's actions, he'd felt no passion, no lust, no desire of any kind passing over the link at any time during the entire encounter, only the same cold, deliberate calculation mingled with smug, sneering disdain. It was only when those emotions were encompassed and overwhelmed by a sudden burst of fierce, malevolent _triumph_ that the truth finally struck home.

Wheeljack realized with a jolt that Starscream hadn't chosen this particular course of action merely for his own twisted pleasure. _That_ was why Starscream hadn't bothered to hack his CPU, or to complete the link between them. Starscream hadn't wanted an interface, not even a forced one. What he had wanted was _energy_. He had connected himself to Wheeljack and methodically stimulated him to the point of overload all for a single purpose: To absorb the resulting torrent of electricity.

Suddenly all the pieces fell into place. Nergill's Magnetic Dysfunction Ray operated by draining energy from vital Cybertronian systems, incapacitating them. Without sufficient energy, motor relays wouldn't respond, basic functions would begin to fail, and sensors and diagnostics would be rendered useless. Left alone, the victim would ultimately end up in stasis, but with a timely infusion of energy..!

Starscream had known, or figured it out, and used Wheeljack to replenish his depleted energy reserves. And now the Decepticon was calmly disconnecting himself from his unwilling Autobot donor and rising gracefully to his feet, all traces of his earlier clumsiness gone.

The last thing Wheeljack heard before slipping into stasis lock was Starscream's shrill cackle of victory.


	2. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers. This chapter contains canon references to the G1 cartoon episode _"Atlantis, Arise."_ Additional episodes will be referenced in future chapters.  
> **Chapter Warnings:** PTSD angst, references to rape.

**Chapter 2: Aftermath**

He onlined in the repair bay of the _Ark._ Ratchet was glaring down at him with that familiar expression that made him instinctively want to duck.

"Hey, Ratch," Wheeljack greeted him cheerfully.

The Autobot CMO made a derisive noise and stalked off with a dismissive wave. "He's fine. Get him out of my repair bay before I slag him myself."

Chuckling, Wheeljack rose from the berth and headed for his lab. Various other 'Bots greeted him along the way, asking after his condition, and he responded with his usual good humor. He was fine. Same old Wheeljack.

When he reached his lab, he immediately triggered the locking mechanism on the door and leaned heavily against it.

He couldn't seem to stop shaking.

* * *

Everything had turned out fine, he learned. There had been a pitched battle in the middle of Washington, D.C. Optimus Prime had called in the Dinobots, Nergill had brought out his Magnetic Dysfunction Ray, Starscream had appeared and knocked it out of his hands, and then Grimlock had destroyed it. In a sense, Wheeljack had made it all possible. He was the creator of the Dinobots, and he'd also been the one to – albeit unwillingly – restore Starscream to full functionality in time for him to intervene.

Somehow he didn't feel much like bragging about that.

He hadn't told anyone what had happened, what Starscream had done to him. It actually bothered him more than he cared to admit, but he couldn't bring himself to talk about it. Just the thought of vocalizing it made his fuel tank churn and his circuits burn with shame. How would the others react if he revealed that a Decepticon had used him like that? Or worse, that he had – on some level, at least – _enjoyed_ it?

He _had_ overloaded, after all.

That was the part that disturbed him the most. He'd _allowed_ it. He'd _let_ it happen. Oh, maybe not directly – he'd been damaged, immobilized, helpless to resist – but in a sense, he had. If he'd been faster, he could have avoided being taken prisoner in the first place. If he'd been less uptight, he wouldn't have refrained from interfacing for so long, been less vulnerable to Starscream's assault, better able to resist. If he'd been smarter, he'd have figured out what Nergill's ray had done to him the way Starscream had, known from the start what Starscream was up to, and maybe even come up with a way to escape, instead of just lying there waiting to be rescued. Lying there letting Starscream –

So really, it was all his fault.

* * *

He couldn't recharge.

He'd tried, lain down on the berth and everything, but every time he offlined his optics, he'd _feel_ him. Feel Starscream. Feel the lingering echoes of the Seeker's presence in his CPU. Feel those knowing hands touching him.

Then he'd get up and purge his tanks again.

His energy reserves had dropped dangerously low. He needed to refuel – and keep it down – or someone, Ratchet probably, would notice something was off about him. And then the questions would start.

Primus, he couldn't deal with that. He was keeping it together for now – barely – but if someone began questioning him…

Within a few joors, every 'Bot would know. The _Ark_ was like that. News traveled fast. Bad news traveled faster.

Some would be sympathetic, feel sorry for him, offer him their pity. Certain others might begin to speculate aloud about whether or not the crazy inventor was secretly – or perhaps not-so-secretly – a 'Con lover.

Wheeljack wasn't sure which was worse.

"Get a grip, 'Jack," he muttered to himself, rising wearily from his seat.

* * *

He headed for the common room, intent on acquiring an energon ration to replenish his depleted fuel reserves. He'd take it back to his lab and lock the door. No one would bother him if they thought he was working – they were too wary of potential explosions.

The plan was a good one, right up until the point where he got his cube from the dispenser and turned around – bumping straight into Bumblebee.

"Ooops, sorry – oh, hi, Wheeljack!" Bumblebee piped cheerfully. "How're you feeling?"

_Bumblebee had been the one that had found him. Bumblebee and Spike. Found him with his chestplate hanging open. Starscream hadn't bothered to close it before he left._

Bumblebee frowned when Wheeljack simply stared at him, offering no response to his greeting.

_Spike wouldn't think anything of it – the humans were ignorant of certain details regarding Cybertronians – but Bumblebee must have noticed. Must have wondered –_

"Um…Wheeljack? Are you okay?"

His optics flickered. "Fine," he replied, his vocal indicators flashing. "I'm fine."

"'Cause I could comm Ratchet –"

"I _said_ I'm FINE!"

Bumblebee retreated a step, taken aback. "Right. S-sorry, Wheeljack."

He departed the common room quickly, feeling the weight of Bumblebee's worried gaze on his retreating backstrut, and doing his best to ignore it.

* * *

He managed to bury himself in his work, to stay focused on various projects. It kept him from thinking too much.

He'd returned to his lab, consumed his energon, and resisted speculating about what Bumblebee knew, or guessed, or what he might have told others about him.

The door was locked. No one commed him. He'd debated setting off a small explosion as an additional deterrent, but ultimately discarded the idea as too risky. It might draw more attention to him.

He was fine.

As long as he didn't have to talk to anyone, recharge, or refuel, he was fine.

He flung the spanner in his hand across the room in disgust. "_Scrap!_"

Someone caught it.

Hearing a sharp, decisive _clink_ instead of the expected loud, stuttering clatter, Wheeljack turned. The door was _locked_, how could anyone have –

Ratchet regarded him archly from the doorway, briefly glancing down at the tool balanced casually in his hand before returning his attention to the engineer who'd thrown it.

"Problem, 'Jack?"

He shrugged awkwardly. "Not really."

"I just had a chat with Bumblebee –"

"I'm pretty busy right now, Ratch," Wheeljack interrupted him. "Maybe you could come back another –"

"What happened, 'Jack?"

Ratchet's query was much softer than his usual gruff, crotchety tone. Hearing it made Wheeljack want to wince.

"Didn't get enough recharge, I guess," he replied evasively. "Sorry I snapped at the little 'Bot. I'll make it up to –"

"It was the Sub-Atlanticans, wasn't it?"

Ratchet was still using that gentle, careful tone. Like a human dealing with a skittish animal.

Wheeljack felt a sudden, irrational surge of hostility towards his longtime friend and colleague. How _dare_ Ratchet talk to him like that? Like he was – _fragile_, or something?!

"They did something to you, didn't they?" Ratchet persisted. "Bumblebee said your spark ch–"

Wheeljack interrupted before Ratchet could actually say it out loud. "It wasn't the Sub-Atlanticans," he said. Cycling his vents in a sigh, his shoulders slumping in defeat, he muttered, "It was Starscream."

"_Starscream?_ But he –"

"Nergill hit him with the Ray, too," Wheeljack explained. "Same as me. Only it didn't work as well on him. Maybe because he's bigger, or maybe Decepticon programming is different enough from ours that –"

"What did he do?"

Wheeljack just looked at him.

"Oh." Ratchet was a smart mech. He'd been around. And he was a medic. "_Oh._"

Wheeljack shrugged uncomfortably.

"Primus, 'Jack. Why didn't you say anything?"

His vocal indicators flickered fitfully. "No big deal," he replied. "Everything worked out. Didn't seem important."

_"Not important?"_ Ratchet repeated incredulously. "'Jack, I'm the CMO! If Starscream hurt you–"

Wheeljack flinched. "He didn't hurt me. You repaired me yourself, you should know."

Ratchet cycled his vents in a sigh. "There's different kinds of _hurt_, Wheeljack. Not all of them leave marks. Sometimes the ones that _don't_ are the hardest ones to fix."

"Can you do that, Ratch?" he asked, optics fixed on the floor. "Can you fix this? Fix _me?_"

"I can try," Ratchet replied. "Why don't you start by telling me what happened?"

* * *

He told him.

He related to Ratchet how he'd onlined on the floor, and found himself unable to move. How he'd realized someone was touching him, and then discovered it was Starscream.

"…and then he plugged in to me," he concluded quietly.

Wheeljack avoided Ratchet's optics as the words left his vocalizer. They'd come out smoothly, at least. Flat and toneless, but smooth.

Ratchet was silent for a klik, then asked softly, "Did he hack your processor?"

Wheeljack shook his helm. "No," he said. "Wasn't what he was after."

"What do you mean?" Ratchet asked.

"He just wanted a quick recharge," he replied. His vocalizer tried for flippant and failed.

Ratchet frowned in confusion initially, but he knew the effects Nergill's weapon. He knew the condition Wheeljack had come back in, and how he'd repaired the damage. Realization dawned within astroseconds. "You're saying he – Starscream, he –"

"Yeah," Wheeljack admitted. It was hard to say it out loud. Even harder than he'd expected.

"And you..?"

A wave of hot shame crackled through his circuits. "Yeah."

Silence. Ratchet was apparently too stunned to reply.

"It wasn't like I _wanted_ to!" Wheeljack blurted out, vocal indicators flickering. "He – I just – I cou- I couldn't _move,_ Ratch, and it – it'd been a really long time, and he just kept – he wouldn't _stop_, I _wanted_ him to stop, but I couldn-" He broke off abruptly, static clogging his vocalizer, breaking up his words and dissolving them into meaningless white noise.

Primus, and in front of _Ratchet_, of all mechs! It was almost as humiliating as what Starscream had done to him. Almost worse than talking about it. Mortified, Wheeljack turned his back on him, hunching his shoulders defensively, struggling to get himself back under control.

"'Jack," Ratchet said gently, "It wasn't your fault."

"Of course it was my fault! I _let_ him-!"

Ratchet seized his shoulders roughly, jerking him around to face him, cutting off his protest and giving him a firm, solid shake for good measure. "Listen to me, Wheeljack," he said fiercely. "It. Wasn't. Your. Fault."

Ratchet's vocalizer reverted to its usual stern, no-nonsense tone as he continued, enunciating each word for emphasis, "Your energy reserves were drained to _critical levels_, 'Jack. You were _immobilized_. You could probably barely process a complete sentence! Your autonomic systems responded the way they were _programmed_ to, and in the state you were in, there was _no way you could have overridden them._ Do. You. Understand?"

Wheeljack stared at him, his optics wide and flickering.

Ratchet's expression softened. "You couldn't have stopped him, 'Jack," he said. "I know it's hard for you accept that; I know you like to think you can handle anything. But sometimes you _can't._ Sooner or later we _all_ run into something we can't handle on our own. And that's when we ask for help."


	3. Analysis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers. This chapter contains canon references to the G1 cartoon episode _"Atlantis, Arise."_ Additional episodes will be referenced in future chapters.  
> **Chapter Warnings:** PTSD angst and the TF equivalent of a rape kit. May be triggering.

**Chapter 3: Analysis**

"The first thing we need to do," Ratchet said, "is take a trip to the repair bay and give your systems a once-over."

Wheeljack started. "What? Why? You already repaired me, Ratch! You said I was fine!"

"True," Ratchet allowed, "but at the time, I thought the only repairs I needed to perform were those related to a critical energy drain. I didn't know Starscream had forced you to uplink with him; I didn't check your CPU for any of the various little nasties he might have infected you with. Those 'Cons are probably lousy with viruses and bad code, and I wouldn't put it past Starscream to implant a hostile program deliberately, either. Considering the condition you were in, he could have done it without you even knowing."

Wheeljack stared at him, horrified. Ratchet was right. It _was_ the sort of thing Starscream – or any Deception really, but Starscream in particular – would do, and he'd had the perfect opportunity to do it.

Seeing his distress, Ratchet was quick to add, "Of course, there's a good chance I won't find anything. You said Starcream was hit by Nergill's Ray too, so it's likely he was too damaged himself to try anything that elaborate. You also said he didn't hack your processor, so odds are you'll come up clean. But as a precaution, I need to check. We have to be sure."

Wheeljack agreed reluctantly. Under the circumstances, he could hardly refuse.

* * *

When they arrived at the repair bay, Ratchet immediately led him to one of the private rooms located at the rear. Wheeljack's first response was relief – he'd spent the better part of the walk over trying to come up with a plausible excuse for why he was back in the repair bay so soon after his last visit, especially when he'd been publicly declared fully functional at the time, and there'd been no explosions or 'Con attacks since – but upon entering the room and watching Ratchet key in the locking code on the door, he began to feel distinctly...uneasy.

What on Cybertron was _wrong_ with him? This was _Ratchet_, for Primus' sake! If there was any mech who could be trusted, it was Ratchet. So why did he suddenly feel trapped?

Ratchet gestured toward the berth. "Up you get."

Wheeljack's processor whirled, searching desperately for some reason to refuse. "Do we really have to do this _now_, Ratch?"

"The sooner the better," Ratchet said. "If Starscream _did_ slip something in, we need to find and remove it quickly, before it has a chance to do too much damage."

Wheeljack nodded, unable to argue with that logic. But he still made no move toward the berth. "So, uh…how will you do it?" he asked.

"The scan? Pretty much your standard CPU scan. Shouldn't take more than a breem. 'Course, if I find something –"

"No," Wheeljack interrupted, "I mean, how will you _do_ it?"

"Oh. I see." Ratchet suddenly looked hesitant, his relaxed berthside manner dissolving like smoke. He cycled his vents in a sigh, obviously reluctant to vocalize what he had to say. "As you're probably aware, the best way for me track what Starscream might or might not have done is to access your systems the same way he did."

Wheeljack remained silent for a long moment. He'd already known, or suspected, at least, what Ratchet's answer would be, even before he vocalized the question. One of the perils of being a mechanical genius; you knew how most repairs were affected.

"So you can't just use a medical access port," he said quietly. It wasn't a question.

Ratchet didn't reply immediately. Wheeljack could feel the medic's optics on him, but made no effort to meet his gaze. He just waited, staring at nothing.

"No," Ratchet replied finally. "I'm sorry, 'Jack."

* * *

He'd gotten on the berth.

There just wasn't any way around it. He wasn't willing to take the chance that some virus of Starscream's malicious design might be quietly wreaking havoc on his systems. Megatron had reprogrammed mechs before, sending them back to betray their unsuspecting friends, and Wheeljack doubted his second-in-command was any more honorable. Statistically speaking, _less_ was more likely.

So he'd gotten on the berth and lain back, pretending to be relaxed when in reality he was anything but.

"You can open up whenever you're ready," Ratchet said in that same gentle, cautious tone.

Wheeljack bit back a sharp retort. Why did Ratchet have to use that stupid tone? It wasn't like he was going to break if Ratchet _talked_ too loud, for Primus' sake. Buoyed by his irritation, he defiantly opened up his chestplate.

Ratchet gave him a long, searching look, then opened his own chestplate and drew out his cable. Swiftly and without preamble, he plugged into the intimate access port located alongside Wheeljack's spark chamber.

Wheeljack stiffened at the sudden invasion of his frame and processor. He'd known it was coming, but somehow it still came as a surprise.

It felt _wrong._

He knew in the logical part of his CPU that it was absolutely necessary to do this. He knew that Ratchet was safe, that he was trustworthy, and that he was trying to help him.

But that didn't stop the less-logical part of him from responding to the unfamiliar presence in his processor with sheer, unadulterated _panic._

The unmistakable presence of _other_ in his CPU triggered the memory files of his encounter with Starscream, and for several kliks Wheeljack experienced both as if they were occurring simultaneously. Once more he sought frantically to defend his core, bolstering his firewalls to block out the intruding presence – _presences?_ – invading his processor.

This time, unimpeded by the damage inflicted by Nergill's ray, he was far more successful. Layer upon layer of blocks and firewalls rose instantly response to his commands, buttressing his core until his CPU was a veritable fortress. He was reaching for the violating plug, intent on tearing it out of his port, when a hand abruptly caught his, preventing him.

"'Jack," a sad, gentle voice said. "Don't make this harder than it already is."

Oh, Primus. _Ratchet._ The scan.

Sheepishly, he began lowering the firewalls he'd raised instinctively, allowing the medic access to his CPU.

Ratchet must have gotten some sense of his embarrassment over the link, because he commented, "It's alright. Perfectly understandable reaction." Sounding a little embarrassed himself, he added, "It's my fault, really. I figured it'd be less traumatic if I did it quickly, like resetting a broken strut. Guess I was wrong."

Wheeljack remained silent, not fully trusting his vocalizer. He concentrated on holding still and resisting the urge to fight, to defend himself against the slow, creeping presence steadily encroaching upon his CPU. He could sense Ratchet initiating the first stage of the scan, looking for traces of any parting gifts the treacherous Seeker might have left behind.

It wasn't just the memory files being triggered that made the scan difficult to endure. Even knowing it was Ratchet plugged in to him and not Starscream offered little comfort.

He'd never been intimate with Ratchet. They were colleagues, and they had a good working relationship, but neither of them had ever had the inclination to take things to the next level. Wheeljack wasn't really given to casual interfaces even without an uplink, but Ratchet employed that particular form of tension relief quite frequently – usually with whoever happened to be nearby when the inclination struck.

Somehow that somebody was _never_ Wheeljack.

Given how much time they spent together working on one repair or another, he could only conclude that his exception was no coincidence. It didn't really bother him – he liked Ratchet, but wasn't especially interested in him romantically – but knowing that they shared, at the very least, a mutual disinterest in one another made this particular situation profoundly awkward.

They were, in essence, interfacing. Certainly that was what anyone who saw them right now would conclude – which, he realized, was precisely why Ratchet had chosen to perform the scan in a locked, private room in the first place – and while no energy was being exchanged, no effort being made on either's part to stimulate any external sensor nodes, they _were_ intimately connected.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

An uplink was something only lovers should engage in, a way to share their feelings for one another along with their pleasure, heightening both. All Wheeljack had felt from Starscream was disdain. All he felt now from Ratchet was pity.

The burst of static that escaped his vocalizer seemed very loud in the small room.

Ratchet's hand on his tightened, squeezing gently as he projected calm and reassurance across the link. "Hang in there, 'Jack," he said quietly. "I'm almost done."

He didn't object to the gentle tone this time, to being treated as if he were broken. He _felt_ broken.

He _was_ broken.

* * *

Ratchet hadn't found anything. The scan had come up empty. Starscream, it seemed, had had other things on his processor. Wheeljack CPU was clean.

Or so Ratchet had said as he'd disconnected himself from him. Wheeljack didn't _feel_ clean. He wondered if he ever would again. At the moment he felt too emotionally drained to move.

"I have to tell Optimus," Ratchet said suddenly.

Pulled from his silent musings, Wheeljack looked up. "What?"

"I have to report what happened to you to Prime."

He stared at him, stricken. "Ratchet, _no_. You _can't_."

"I have to, 'Jack," Ratchet said apologetically. "It's my duty as CMO to report any damage incurred by the mechs under his command. Optimus Prime needs to know about this."

Optics flickering, his processor racing, Wheeljack replied quickly, "But I _wasn't_ damaged. So – so you don't have to report it to Optimus."

"'Jack–"

"I _wasn't_," he insisted stubbornly. "Not technically, not by Starscream. You didn't find anything. I'm fine."

"You're arguing semantics, 'Jack," Ratchet replied wearily. "I know this must be difficult for you –"

"You _don't_ know, Ratchet!" he burst out, vocal indicators flashing wildly. "How could you? You have _no idea_ – do you have _any_ idea–?"

He broke off abruptly, lunging off the berth to confront the medic directly. "You _know_ what'll happen, Ratchet! You'll put it in a report to Prime, he'll tell Prowl and Jazz – Red Alert'll probably find out too, even if no one actually _tells_ him – and the next thing you know, _everyone_ will know about it! It's bad enough that it _happened_, do you have to tell the whole slagging _Ark_, too?!"

He fell silent, his intakes heaving, his optics flickering. He wanted to say more, but his vocalizer was already clogging with static, and he'd had enough humiliation for one day. He wasn't going to break down in front of Ratchet.

Not again.

Ratchet stared back at him in surprise, startled by the vehemence of his outburst.

Swallowing the tattered remains of his pride, Wheeljack forced himself meet his friend's optics. "_Please_, Ratchet."

The look of _pity_ Ratchet was giving him made Wheeljack's spark clench painfully.

He couldn't bear that look. He averted his gaze.

"All right, Wheeljack," Ratchet relented. "If that's how you feel about it, I'll file the report as a part of your confidential medical file. Restricted access – my optics and Prime's only."

Wheeljack nodded reluctantly. It would have to do.


	4. Anxiety

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers. This chapter contains references to the G1 cartoon episode _"Day of the Machines."_ Additional episodes will be referenced in future chapters.  
> **Chapter Warnings:** PTSD angst, references to rape.

**Chapter 4: Anxiety**

He couldn't recharge.

He was exhausted, practically ready to drop where he stood, but he just _couldn't._

He couldn't face the sensor echoes, or the memory files they inevitably triggered. He'd hoped they'd get better with time, but no.

They'd gotten _worse._

After the scan, Wheeljack had felt more at ease, secure in the absolute certainty that his circuits were clean. For the first time since...it happened, he'd initiated a recharge cycle without hesitation, confident that any lingering traces of Starscream still lurking in his processor were just that and nothing more.

He figured he could handle a few sensor ghosts. He'd just ignore them. It had been bad, yes, but was over now, _really_ over. He was safe, clean, and functioning at optimal levels. There was nothing to be afraid of.

So he'd lain down on the berth that evening, studiously ignoring the faint flicker of unease that flashed through his CPU, and offlined his optics.

He'd been calm. He'd been in control.

He'd slipped into recharge feeling almost...relaxed.

He onlined with a start a few joors later, feeling anything but.

It was because of the scan, he surmised. It _had_ to be, because now _Ratchet_ was in there too, in his CPU, a comfortingly familiar presence sickeningly interwoven with the horrific jumble of fear and humiliation, persistent phantom touches and shrill, mocking laughter.

_That_ was disturbing enough all by itself, but when Wheeljack had risen from the berth, intent on finding a datapad or something to tinker with, some form of distraction, he'd noticed something else that made it even worse.

He was running hot.

The sound of his own cooling fans humming away in his chassis made his fuel tank roil in self-disgust. Primus, what was _wrong_ with him? Having your recharge cycles plagued by sensor echoes of a bad experience was hardly pleasant, but at least it was _normal._

Actually being _aroused_ by those echoes...

The energon in his tanks lurched, practically boiling at the thought. The next thing he knew, he was purging again.

Afterward, feeling weak and shaky, he sat down and waited for his systems to normalize, trying not to think.

He didn't think about Starscream. He didn't think about Ratchet. He definitely didn't think about the heat suffusing his chassis, or how easy it would be to just tweak a few wires and–

That was how he'd ended up in Command, even though he was technically supposed to be off-duty. It was why he was present to overhear Teletraan-1's warning about a fleet of oil tankers behaving erratically, and Dr. Gates' frantic late-night distress call.

Hound had offered to investigate the tankers, to go and find out what the Decepticons were up to. Normally Wheeljack would have been the first to volunteer to go with him, but this time he remained silent. Rescuing a human from some Earth mechanisms run amuck sounded far more appealing to Wheeljack than facing off against the Decepticons – and one Seeker in particular – directly.

When Prime gave the order to roll out, he'd transformed along with the others, heading for Quantum Labs.

Sparkplug had gone with him.

"I hope Spike will be okay," Sparkplug commented once they'd gotten on the road.

"He'll be fine," Wheeljack assured him. "Hound's with him, and Skyfire. They won't let anything happen to him."

Wheeljack knew Hound, knew the kind of mech he was. He was certain Hound would do whatever was necessary to protect the human boy, just as Wheeljack had done...that day.

He hoped if it came to that, the cost wouldn't be too high. What if one of them was captured by the 'Cons, the way he had been? What if –

"Yeah, I know," Sparkplug said, interrupting his thoughts. "Spike's a resourceful kid; he can take care of himself. I know all that. But a father can't help worrying a little."

"Can't blame you," Wheeljack replied gloomily. "Sometimes bad things happen."

Sparkplug seemed to find his sober response less than reassuring. "Well…at least it's just recon. They shouldn't get into _too_ much trouble."

"Yeah," he agreed. "Dr. Gates is probably in more danger than they are, and we're on our way to help him."

Sparkplug nodded, "They're just regular machines at the lab. Compared to the Decepticons, taking care of them ought to be child's play."

A degree of anxiety Wheeljack hadn't even realized was there eased from him at the mechanic's words. Sparkplug was right; this would be _easy._

He felt a sudden surge of gratitude towards the human. His presence was somehow…comforting. Reassuring. The small talk they exchanged during the remainder of the drive was a welcome diversion from his own weariness, from the unwelcome thoughts still haunting his processor.

By the time they arrived at Quantum Labs, Wheeljack was in good spirits and ready to go to work. He was the first to attack one of the machines that emerged to defend the laboratory against the Autobot rescuers, the first to tear one open and discover that no human was controlling it. He'd taken out the laser gun turrets when Prime gave the order, targeting them handily, his aim never wavering.

He felt almost like his old self again, confident and self-assured.

The machines proved to be more of a challenge than they'd expected, but when Optimus Prime called in the Dinobots, Wheeljack's spark surged with pride. They were, after all, _his_ creations, and in light of their rather shaky entrance into the Autobot ranks, it felt good to know that they were now considered a valuable asset to the cause.

But once they'd arrived, Grimlock had made a comment about how they were always coming to the Autobots' rescue, and Wheeljack was suddenly reminded of the last instance of Dinobot heroics.

He hadn't been there to witness it personally; he'd been offline. Damaged, drained, and immobilized. Used and discarded by Starscream, awaiting ignominious discovery by Bumblebee and Spike. Splayed out flat on his back, his spark chamber laid bare, lying naked and exposed for all to see –

"Help! Wheeljack, Prowl, somebody! Get this thing offa me!"

Sparkplug's frightened cries shook him out of his daze. Wheeljack forced the unwanted memory files crowding his processor aside and rushed to aid him. He made short work of the robot welder, saving his friend.

"Thanks, Wheeljack," Sparkplug said. "Thought I was a goner."

"Not as easy as we thought it would be, huh?" he asked.

"I guess not," Sparkplug replied as Wheeljack helped pull him free of the ruined machine. "Hey…what's that?"

Wheeljack looked in the direction Sparkplug indicated. His optics widened in surprise. "A remote control circuit linker!" he exclaimed. "_That's_ how TORQ is controlling these things! I bet there's one on every machine here! We've gotta tell Prime!"

"Better yet, let's _show_ him," Sparkplug replied, bending down to pry the small device free.

While they were busy checking the other destroyed machines for circuit linkers, Optimus Prime had rescued the trapped human scientists. A brief conversation with Dr. Gates, combined with the evidence of the Cybertronian remote control devices, solved the mystery of the misbehaving oil tankers. The circuit linkers and TORQ III's reprogramming were clearly the work of Megatron. Stealing the oil the tankers carried was his obvious goal.

It was evident that the only way to stop the Decepticon tyrant from gaining control of such a massive amount of energy was to stop TORQ. Once the human scientists were safe, Optimus blasted open the door, and a second wave of machines came pouring out. The Autobots quickly scattered, but nearly all of them soon found themselves facing off against a potentially deadly foe.

Wheeljack was no exception; he tried his best, but being low on energon and badly in need of recharge, his efforts were insufficient to the task. Within a few kliks he was trapped between the crushing jaws of a robot compactor – an unpleasant fate under any circumstances, but most especially for Wheeljack, who had learned all too recently what sort of misfortune could befall a 'Bot who was unable to move.

He began to panic.

"Wheeljack! Hang on!"

It was Sparkplug. As he craned his neck cables to look in the direction of the human's call, Sparkplug ran past him, a second machine hot on his heels. Sparkplug halted alongside the robot compactor and the pinned Autobot, waving his arms.

"Hey, over here!" he called. The second machine – whose function Wheeljack couldn't immediately discern – veered sharply and charged, raising a pair of crablike robotic arms tipped with wickedly sharp-looking claws. Sparkplug held his ground until the last possible moment, then swiftly dove aside.

The robot compactor holding Wheeljack was struck instead, shuddering with the force of the impact as the vicious claws pierced its upper jaw with a horrid metallic screech, burying themselves deep within the compactor's metal hide. For a tense astrosecond the two machines remained frozen, locked together in a deadly embrace.

The compactor jerked violently as the crab-robot tugged, struggling to free its claws. A second, harder yank failed to release the clawed machine, but inadvertently caused the robot compactor's jaws to part briefly. Seizing the opportunity, Wheeljack squirmed free of its grip.

He fired one of his shrapnel-needle shells into the still-entangled pair the instant he rolled clear. At such close range, he didn't even need to aim. The resulting belch of smoke and shower of sparks was extremely satisfying.

He could almost ignore the way his intakes were heaving, his spark pulsing wildly in its chamber.

"Thanks," he murmured as he regained his feet, extricating himself from the mess. Wheeljack looked around, assessing the status of the battle. Most of the other Autobots appeared to have emerged unscathed. The remaining machines lay scattered around them, most of them now charred, smoking ruins or heaps of melted slag.

"Hey, I owed you one," Sparkplug replied with a smile. "You all right?"

"Sure," he said.

It was a lie.

Optimus Prime gave the order to fall back, and went in to face the crazed supercomputer alone, leaving Wheeljack and the others behind to await his return. Without the continued distraction of enemy mechanisms to fight, Wheeljack no longer had anything to buffer him against the flood of memory files assaulting his CPU.

He slumped against a nearby building, shaking uncontrollably.

* * *

By the time Prime emerged victorious from his battle with TORQ III, Wheeljack had managed to get himself back under control. The revelation that the tankers were still on a direct course to the Decepticon's undersea base in spite the supercomputer's destruction provided the distraction Wheeljack so desperately needed; he latched onto it like a lifeline.

He was so focused in fact, he didn't notice Sparkplug watching him with a concerned frown.

Of course now the Autobots had no choice but to follow the course Wheeljack had most hoped to avoid: a direct confrontation with the Decepticons. It didn't help that Starscream showed up out of nowhere midway through the battle.

Wheeljack managed to get off a couple of shots, but highly doubted that he actually hit anything. The violent tremors in his hands made aiming practically impossible.

Nevertheless, they won the day with minimal damage, due largely in part the heroic actions of Optimus Prime. After returning to Quantum Labs with the hydrofoil, it had finally been time to head back to the _Ark._

Wheeljack was grateful for that; by then he was so depleted he was almost willing to give recharging another try.

Sparkplug rode back with him. For several kliks they drove in companionable silence.

"You all right, Wheeljack?" Sparkplug asked suddenly.

"Sure," he replied affably. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"No reason," Sparkplug replied. "You just seemed a little…_off_, back there."

Wheeljack's spark clenched. "I'm fine," he said dismissively. "A little drained, maybe. I was just about to go and get some recharge when the call came in. Probably should've stayed behind, but I wanted to help."

"I hear ya," Sparkplug replied. "I'm not usually up this late myself, but when Spike said he wanted to go along…"

Wheeljack made an understanding noise. "I guess we'll both be glad to get back to the _Ark_."

"I'm glad you're okay," Sparkplug said sincerely. "I overheard Bumblebee talking to Spike the other day; he said he was worried about you, thinking of talking to Ratchet –"

"Bumblebee should mind his own business," he interrupted, the words coming out sharper and colder than he intended. "I'm fine."

Sparkplug seemed taken aback. "Well…you did get damaged pretty bad during that mess with the Sub-Atlanticans," he said reasonably, "and the whole reason you got caught in the first place was because you were trying to save 'Bee and Spike. He probably feels kinda responsible; I know Spike does."

"It's all right," Wheeljack replied, chastened. "I don't regret it. I wouldn't have wanted anything to happen to those two."

"I know you wouldn't," Sparkplug replied. "You're a good friend, Wheeljack. We're lucky to have you."

"Thanks," he replied, his spark warming along with his tone. "I feel the same."

"If you want, I could take a look at you," Sparkplug offered. "I know sometimes Ratchet can be kind of…well, you know how he is. I don't blame you for wanting to avoid him."

"I'm _fine_," Wheeljack insisted, his tone chilling again. "There's nothing wrong with me that some energon and a few joor's recharge wouldn't cure."

Sparkplug fell silent, dropping the subject.

A few kliks later, he spoke up again. "You know, I fought in the Korean War, myself."

Wheeljack made a noncommittal noise, uncertain about the change in topic.

"Saw some pretty bad things, during the war," Sparkplug continued conversationally. "Got hurt pretty bad a couple times, too."

Wheeljack made no reply, but the level of tension within the interior of the Lancia increased noticeably.

"Stuff like that can get to you after a while," Sparkplug persisted. "Make it harder to go back out and fight another day."

Wheeljack made another noncommittal noise.

After a pregnant pause, Sparkplug sighed heavily, but made no further attempts at conversation.

They drove the rest of the way back to the _Ark_ in silence.

It was no longer companionable.

* * *

Wheeljack stalked down the corridor, quietly seething. He'd dropped Sparkplug off at the entrance to the _Ark_ with a curt farewell. Why did everyone have to keep questioning him all the time? Why did they all have to insist on _poking_ and _prying_ and just plain not minding their own slagging business? Why couldn't they just act _normal_, instead of constantly reminding –

His internal comm pinged, interrupting his thoughts. He opened a channel. _*Yeah?*_ he replied absently.

_*Wheeljack, this is Prowl. Optimus Prime wishes to speak to you in his office.*_

His spark sank. Prime had to have received Ratchet's report by now.

_Great,_ he thought. _More questions._

_*What about?*_ he inquired over the comm link, struggling to sound as blasé as possible.

_*I didn't ask,*_ came the curt reply. _*Prowl out.*_

Wheeljack shook his helm, feeling mildly amused. In the past there'd been times when he'd found Prowl's brusque, official manner to be rude, bordering on offensive, but this time it was almost a relief. He found himself feeling strangely grateful to Prowl for _not_ engaging in the usual social niceties.

For not asking awkward questions.

He gazed longingly down the corridor, cycling his vents in a sigh. He'd planned to pay a quick visit the common room to collect his energon ration and then to retreat to his quarters or his lab, someplace private where he could be alone for a joor or two.

Prime's office lay in the opposite direction.

"Just not my night," he muttered to himself, and turned around, heading back the way he had come.

* * *

When he arrived at Optimus Prime's office, his query ping was answered with an invitation to enter. The Autobot commander was seated behind the broad expanse of his desk, and greeted him as Wheeljack stepped through the door.

"Hello, Wheeljack," Optimus said. "Thank you for coming."

"Sure, no problem," he replied, somewhat distractedly.

There was a datapad lying on the desk next to Prime's right hand. Wheeljack couldn't take his optics off it. Did it contain Ratchet's report? Had Optimus read it yet? How much had Ratchet included in it? What sort of _details_ had the medic thought necessary to provide–?

"I wanted to thank you for your assistance today," Optimus said, startling him from his thoughts.

Wheeljack tore his optics away from the datapad to meet his gaze. "Me?"

"Yes," Optimus said. "If you hadn't been there, we might have overlooked the circuit linkers. Without them as a clue, we might not have learned what Megatron was up to in time."

"It was Sparkplug who spotted the first one," Wheeljack replied uncomfortably, discomfited by the unexpected praise. "I just, you know, _identified_ it."

"Nevertheless, we were fortunate to have you along. I'm grateful you chose to come with us," Optimus said. "Especially since you weren't assigned to duty at the time."

Wheeljack's spark quailed at the observation. Did his audials detect a faint hint of disapproval in Prime's vocalizer? Was his statement intended as a reprimand?

"I just wanted to help," he said weakly, his vocal indicators flashing fitfully.

Optimus Prime offered no response to that; he simply sat, quietly regarding Wheeljack with serious optics.

Wheeljack fidgeted nervously, feeling trapped beneath that steady gaze. "Was there anything else you needed, sir?" he asked.

"No," Optimus replied. "I just wanted to thank you, and…see how you were doing."

Wheeljack's optics shifted back to the datapad still lying innocuously on Prime's desk. "I-I'm fine, sir," he stammered, wincing inwardly the moment the words left his vocalizer. He couldn't lie to Optimus, not right to his commander's faceplate –

"I mean, I – I could use some recharge sir, but I'm – I'll be fine," he amended awkwardly.

"I understand," Prime said sympathetically, triggering another involuntary flinch. "As valuable as your assistance is to us, Wheeljack, I wouldn't have you neglect your own basic needs in order to provide it. In war, some sacrifices are necessary. Others are not."

"Yes sir," Wheeljack said.

"If you find you require lighter duties for a time, to allow yourself a chance to…get caught up," Optimus continued gently, "you need only to ask. I'll make the necessary arrangements with Prowl and Jazz."

"Yes sir. Thank you, sir," he replied stiffly.

"You're dismissed, Wheeljack. Go and get some recharge."

"Yes sir," he repeated gratefully.

* * *

He couldn't get out of Prime's office fast enough. It was only through sheer force of will that he managed to exit the room in a calm and dignified manner.

Of course, the corridor outside it wasn't much better. There wasn't normally a lot of traffic at this time of day, but there was always some. For the moment the hall appeared to be empty, which was fortunate, because Wheeljack once again found himself slumping against a nearby wall for support.

"Keep it together, 'Jack," he whispered to himself, clenching his hands into fists to keep them from trembling. "Just take a moment and get a hold of yourself. Go and get some energon, then go back to the lab. You're all right, you can do this..."

Optimus Prime knew. He _knew._ Wheeljack was sure of it. Optimus was too tactful to broach the topic directly, but there was no question in Wheeljack's CPU that Prime had read Ratchet's report, and that he knew exactly what had happened to him.

All the clues were there; the praise, the hint of a reprimand. The carefully chosen words uttered in soft, gentle tones, the look of concern in those caring azure optics.

A part of him was almost pathetically grateful to Optimus for his discretion. If Optimus had insisted Wheeljack talk about what happened, he couldn't technically refuse – Optimus was, after all, the _Prime_. It was a huge relief that he hadn't. Breaking down in front of Ratchet had been bad enough; doing it in front of Optimus…

Wheeljack shuddered at the thought, shame burning through his circuits.

But another part of him couldn't help but resent the careful treatment, the way Prime had behaved as if he were still damaged, or as fragile as one of their human allies. It stung Wheeljack's pride, knowing that his leader thought he needed to be handled with such delicacy.

_What would you have preferred, 'Jack?_ he thought bitterly. _That he said, 'Hey, Wheeljack, heard you got fragged by Starscream! Is it true you actually _enjoyed_ it?'_

The very thought made him wince. Optimus would never say something so cruel; he'd always been kind and diplomatic.

Wheeljack's irritation was suddenly swallowed by a wave of guilt. Optimus was doing his best. Wheeljack understood the burden his leader was under, Prime's desire to protect and shield his troops from harm in spite of the war. He was willing to bet that Ratchet's report had been a blow to Optimus, that Prime was probably even now blaming himself for sending Wheeljack on that mission, knowing that he'd come to harm while following his orders.

He cycled his vents in a sigh. It wasn't Optimus Prime's fault, what had happened to him. Optimus may have been the one to send him on that mission, but it had been _Wheeljack's_ decision to allow himself be captured in an effort to ensure the others' escape. If it was _anyone's_ fault, it was –

_No,_ he thought. _It wasn't my fault. Ratchet said it wasn't. _

...if only he could make himself _believe_ it.


	5. Acrimony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers. This chapter contains minor references to the G1 cartoon episode _"Atlantis, Arise."_ Additional episodes will be referenced in future chapters.  
> **Chapter Warnings:** PTSD angst, references to rape.

**Chapter 5: Acrimony**

The common room was crowded.

Several 'Bots were clustered around the vidscreen, watching one of the human soap operas. Wheeljack had never really seen the appeal of such programs, but they were popular with a lot of the Autobots, the minibots in particular.

A number of other 'Bots were scattered about the room, seated at tables or standing in small groups, exchanging jokes, small talk and gossip as they consumed their morning energon rations.

Wheeljack headed straight for the energon dispenser, planning to grab a cube and make a quick exit. He didn't really relish the thought of socializing in his present state of mind, and didn't think he could take any more inquiries into his health or well-being. Knowing the penchant for gossip at such gatherings made him especially uneasy – the longer he remained present and visible, the more likely some 'Bot would decide to make _him_ the next topic of their conversation.

He managed to get his cube without anything more strenuous than a brief greeting or two, and turned to leave.

That was when he noticed them.

Bumblebee, Spike and Sparkplug were huddled together at a table off in one corner, previously overlooked because their position had been shielded from his view by the intervening clusters of conversing mechs. Their bent postures and serious expressions made it clear they weren't engaging in the usual morning banter.

Wheeljack had a pretty good idea what topic they were discussing.

A flare of anger shot through his spark. His hands twitched, the left sloshing the energon in his cube, the right tightening into a fist. How dare they talk about him behind his back! It wasn't any of their slagging business!

He was an astrosecond away from storming over there and giving them a piece of his processor when Bumblebee suddenly looked up.

Their optics met.

His anger was suddenly swept away in a cold wash of fear. He looked away quickly, but out of the corner of his optic, he could see Bumblebee exchanging a few terse words with the two humans and rising from his seat.

Wheeljack's spark fluttered in panic, his processor scrambling for a means of escape. There was no way he could leave the room before Bumblebee reached him, not without his flight being obvious; he was too far from the door. Maybe he could pretend to be busy..?

Three quick – but not too quick – strides brought him to an empty seat at an occupied table. He sat down without preamble, setting his cube in front of him.

"Wheeljack?" Trailbreaker – the current occupant of said table – said in surprise, regarding him with startled optics.

"Morning, Trailbreaker," Wheeljack greeted him, vocal indicators flashing in a friendly manner. "Do you mind if I sit here? You weren't waiting for someone, were you?"

"N-no…" Trailbreaker stammered. "Well, actually, yes, I was waiting for Hound, but–"

"Oh, sorry," Wheeljack apologized, still watching Bumblebee out of the corner of his optic.

Bumblebee appeared stymied by this new development; he'd stopped in his tracks and now stood hesitantly halfway between his own table and Wheeljack's, looking uncertain. Given the subject Wheeljack suspected Bumblebee intended to pursue, he figured it was unlikely he would broach it in front of an audience.

"Crowded this morning," he commented. "I should probably just take my cube back to the lab –"

"You don't have to do that," Trailbreaker said quickly. "I mean, that is, I _was_ saving the seat for Hound, but he's not here yet, so – you can stay, if you want. I don't mind."

Bumblebee seemed to have come to a decision; he'd gone back to the table where Spike and Sparkplug sat waiting, and they had returned to their huddle.

"I guess I could stick around until Hound gets here," Wheeljack relented. "When he does, I'll clear out."

"Or you could join us," Trailbreaker offered.

"There's only two seats," he pointed out.

"Oh…right. Well, we could go somewhere else, I guess. Or some of the others might have left by then..."

"Sure, maybe," Wheeljack replied agreeably, glancing back at the other table. Bumblebee and the two humans were now leaving the common room; he watched them surreptitiously as they made their way toward the door.

It was all he could do not to slump over in relief as they exited. Instead he reached for his cube and took a sip, feeling the tension easing from his shoulder-struts.

"Working on any new inventions?" Trailbreaker asked hopefully.

It was an obvious conversational gambit made to avoid an awkward silence, but it struck Wheeljack as a harmless one. "One or two," he replied somewhat evasively. "Still got some bugs to work out."

Trailbreaker nodded, but seemed to have exhausted his repertoire of small talk. The two mechs knew each other, or at least knew of each other, and they had some friends in common, but they'd never really socialized one-on-one.

"Did you and Hound have plans for today?" Wheeljack asked, doing his part to keep the flagging conversation alive.

Trailbreaker brightened noticeably at the question. "Yeah, yeah we're going out for a drive later, gonna check out some of the local Earth fauna. We've been doing that a lot lately. There's some really fascinating specimens out there. Earth's an amazing planet."

Wheeljack nodded, "Yeah, I've heard Hound say that."

Wheeljack was pretty sure Hound was with Mirage – talk about your odd couples – or at least he _had_ been the last time Wheeljack checked in with the rumor mill. He wondered if some of the Towers mech's gloss had begun to wear off, leaving Hound in search of a mech who shared more of his interests. Trailbreaker _did_ seem more Hound's type…

"You could come along with us, if you want," Trailbreaker offered. "I'm sure Hound wouldn't mind."

"Thanks for the offer," Wheeljack replied. "I may take you up on that sometime. Unfortunately I've got some things to do, plus I really need to get some recharge. You know how it is."

"Yeah, I know," Trailbreaker said. "We're lucky to get any downtime at all. Those 'Cons never give us a break! We'll wear our tires bald, chasin' after them."

His chuckle was only partly forced. "They keep us hopping all right," he agreed. "Listen, I've got to get back to work. But it was nice talking with you."

Trailbreaker looked strangely disappointed. "Oh. Okay. See you around."

"See ya," Wheeljack said as he collected his cube. "Say hi to Hound for me."

"Will do," Trailbreaker called after him as he left.

* * *

Feeling in better spirits, Wheeljack made his way back to his lab, energon cube stashed in his subspace compartment for later consumption.

He thought about heading for his quarters and giving recharge another try, but ultimately decided against it – as weary as he was, he was in too good a mood. He didn't want to spoil it so soon, and he was fairly certain a renewed attempt at recharge would darken his outlook very quickly.

He would have liked to try using a processor inhibitor to ensure a recharge cycle free of sensor echoes, but that kind of equipment was restricted, even to a mech of his rank who often assisted in the repair bay. Because they were classified as potentially dangerous devices, only the CMO was allowed access to them.

Wheeljack wasn't desperate enough to try and sneak one out of the repair bay, and he didn't want to ask Ratchet for one, either. Ratchet already knew more about his personal problems than Wheeljack was comfortable with. Having to explain why he wanted the inhibitor would only exacerbate the situation.

Especially since Ratchet himself had recently begun making cameos in those same sensor echoes.

The only other semi-reliable ways Wheeljack knew of to induce a deep recharge cycle – apart from collapsing due to critical energy depletion – were overcharging on energon or multiple intense overloads.

Neither of those options appealed to him, for obvious reasons.

Wheeljack cycled his intakes in a sigh, rounding the corner of the corridor that led to his lab. If he couldn't get his hands on an inhibitor, maybe he could jury-rig a device that possessed similar properties…

Absorbed in his musings, he only happened to glance up as he neared his lab. The sight that met his optics froze both his servos and his CPU, halting him in mid-stride.

Bumblebee was standing outside the lab's door, clearly waiting for him.

Something clicked over in his processor, and Wheeljack was able to function again. "Bumblebee," he greeted him coolly.

"Hi, Wheeljack," Bumblebee replied. His tone was friendly, but more subdued than usual.

"Something you needed?" he asked.

"Kinda. I wanted to talk to you; you got a klik?"

"No," Wheeljack replied curtly, shouldering past him to key in the locking code on the door to his lab. When it hissed open, he entered immediately.

Bumblebee followed him inside. "It'll only take an astrosecond," he persisted.

Wheeljack gazed up at the ceiling, counting off .498 seconds on his internal chronometer, then said, "Time's up. Nice talkin' to ya."

Bumblebee stood stupidly a few steps past the threshold of the lab, staring worriedly at him as Wheeljack busied himself with some of the spare parts he'd left scattered across one of the workstations. After a few astroseconds, he recovered enough to stammer haltingly, "Um…listen, Wheeljack…"

"Are you still here?" he inquired, not looking up.

"Uh…yes," Bumblebee said uncomfortably. "Listen, Wheeljack, I know you're mad at me, and – and you _should_ be, I mean, it's _my_ fault you got hurt, and I don't blame you for being torqued off…"

"I'm not torqued off," Wheeljack replied without pausing in his activity. "Seal the door on your way out."

Silence.

After several kliks passed with no further efforts to engage him in conversation, Wheeljack risked a glance over his shoulder-strut, wondering if Bumblebee had finally taken the hint and left.

He hadn't. Bumblebee was still standing there, looking at him with a pathetically plaintive expression on his faceplate.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry," Bumblebee said in a small voice.

Wheeljack turned back to his work without a word, ignoring him.

"I'm _really_ sorry," Bumblebee repeated quietly. "They…they hurt you, didn't they?"

"No, they didn't," he replied, not turning around.

"I…I know they did something to your sp– "

"No, you _don't_ know," Wheeljack interrupted him, his vocalizer cold and hard. "And no, they _didn't_."

"Wheeljack, I _saw_ –" Bumblebee began, but cut himself off abruptly when Wheeljack stiffened, the tools in his hands dropping to the table with a loud _clank._

Wheeljack turned around slowly, stalking over to the minibot, closing in on him until they were scant inches apart, practically scraping armor. Standing this close, he positively loomed over the smaller mech.

He glared down at Bumblebee through optics narrowed to mere slits. "I'm only going to say this once," he hissed, low and dangerous, his vocal indicators barely flickering. "You don't _know_ anything. They didn't _do_ anything."

Bumblebee stared up at him, frozen, his optics wide.

"If I find out you've been saying otherwise, to _anyone_, I'll be very…_unhappy,_" Wheeljack continued in the same soft, menacing tone. "And if I get unhappy, I _guarantee_ you'll be unhappy, too. Is that understood?"

"Y-yeah, s-sure," Bumblebee stammered.

"Now would be a good time for you to leave," he advised.

Bumblebee backed away quickly, stumbling several times in his haste before finally turning and scrambling out the door and back into the corridor.

Wheeljack stared at the door for a long time after it slid shut, his spark lurching in its chamber. When he finally moved again, he was surprised to discover that his hands were clenched into fists.


	6. Amity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers. This chapter contains references to (and quotes some dialogue from) the G1 cartoon episode _"Enter the Nightbird."_ Additional episodes will be referenced in future chapters.  
> **Chapter Warnings:** PTSD angst, references to rape.

**Chapter 6: Amity**

Wheeljack onlined with a jerk, sitting bolt upright in his seat. For a bad moment he wasn't sure where he was, but once his processor finished booting up and he refreshed his optics a few times, his previously-unrecognizable surroundings resolved themselves into the familiar features of his lab.

It wasn't hard to figure out what had happened. He'd been working on his latest project, a set of detection panels designed to supplement the _Ark's_ security system, when he'd finally reached his limit. His overtaxed systems had initiated a forced recharge to avoid critical depletion, and Wheeljack had keeled over right then and there.

At least there'd been no sensor ghosts. Forced recharge was deep, and difficult to override unless you were a medic. And he'd definitely needed it – his processor felt clearer now, more alert.

He checked his internal chronometer. It was late afternoon, which meant he'd only been offline a handful of joors. He wasn't assigned to duty until the following morning. He looked over the array of circuit panels and tools he'd left scattered across the table in front of him, but the thought of returning to work was unappealing. The lab suddenly seemed too quiet, too cramped and confining.

After a moment's deliberation, he heaved himself to his feet.

Occasional bouts of restlessness were nothing new to Wheeljack. Usually he dealt with them by taking an energon break or paying a visit to the repair bay to chat with Ratchet for a breem or two. Either option had proven effective at dispelling such feelings in the past.

His fuel levels were currently within acceptable parameters, and he still had half a cube in his subspace compartment, so rather than heading for the common room, he addressed his steps toward the repair bay.

Halfway there he stopped, wavering indecisively. A part of him desperately longed to talk to Ratchet, to exchange their usual jibes and banter, to enjoy the easy camaraderie and comfortable familiarity established over millennia of close association, but another part of him knew better.

Those days of were over.

His spark sank at the realization. If he visited Ratchet now, it wouldn't be the same. It would _never_ be the same. Because now when Ratchet looked at him, he wouldn't see the mech who'd volunteered to raid a Decepticon storage facility for energy conductors to bolster their dwindling reserves, or the one who'd assisted him in saving the sparks of countless mechs – no, he'd see the mech who'd broken down in his lab as he confessed what Starscream had done to him, the one who'd fought to hold himself together as he lay on a berth in repair bay while Ratchet diligently scanned his CPU.

And then Ratchet would ask how he was doing, in that gentle, careful tone that was so different from the one he normally used.

A sudden, overwhelming sense of loss consumed him. He fought the urge to keen like a sparkling, to give voice to his abject misery.

It was as if Ratchet had _died._

Depression enveloping him like a black cloud, Wheeljack turned and headed in the opposite direction.

* * *

He found himself standing at the entrance to the _Ark_, staring bleakly out into the desert.

"Wheeljack?"

Turning toward the voice, he spied Trailbreaker standing there, regarding him with a look of mild surprise.

"Hey, Trailbreaker," he greeted him. "Going on another outing with Hound?"

"No, actually," Trailbreaker responded listlessly. "We were going to, but…Hound couldn't make it. Something came up."

"Decepticons..?" Wheeljack asked, feeling torn. Having to fight the 'Cons wasn't something he was eager to do, but it _would_ serve as a distraction from his present mood…

"_Mirage_," Trailbreaker replied bitterly.

"Oh," he said with sudden understanding. "Sorry to hear that."

Trailbreaker shrugged, "It's okay. I'm kinda getting used to it."

"Why don't you just go without him?" he suggested. "It's a nice day, seems a shame to waste it."

"I could, I suppose," Trailbreaker mused. "Hey…why don't you come with me?"

Wheeljack looked at him in surprise. "Me?"

"Un-unless you're busy," Trailbreaker stammered.

Wheeljack considered the offer. Hound's nature drives weren't really his thing; he found life on Earth interesting, but tended to be more intrigued by the humans and their technology – primitive as it was – than by the simple organic life forms Hound found so fascinating. But it _would_ be something to do, something to keep his processor off….other things.

"Sure, why not?" he agreed. "I'm not on duty until morning, and I could use a break."

He was surprised by how pleased Trailbreaker looked at his acceptance of the invitation. _Poor mech,_ he thought. _He must be almost as depressed as I am._

* * *

He'd forgotten how good it felt just to get out and _move._

They'd started out slowly, Trailbreaker taking the lead and choosing their direction, but gradually, without really realizing it, Wheeljack began to accelerate. Within a few kliks he'd passed the other 'Bot, blazing a trail of his own up the winding mountain road they'd chosen.

The sensation of the smooth paved roadway unrolling beneath his tires and the wind gusting along his chassis felt wonderful. It felt like _freedom._ For a moment Wheeljack felt as if it really _were_ possible to outrun your troubles and leave them behind you.

Then his comm pinged. _*Um…Wheeljack..?*_

He recalled with a jolt that Trailbreaker was with him, that he'd been the one to invite Wheeljack along on this drive – and that he was presently traveling well beyond the other mech's top speed. Trailbreaker was in fact now quite a ways behind him.

He braked suddenly, so hard he did a complete one-eighty before finally skidding to a halt. He could just make out the dark, blocky shape of the other 'Bot in the distance, determinedly chugging along in an effort to catch up to him.

_*Sorry,*_ he apologized over the comm link. _*Guess I had a mild case of cabin fever. Got a bit carried away there.* _

_*That's okay,*_ Trailbreaker replied. _*I don't blame you; if I could move like that, I'd probably do the same.*_

Trailbreaker's tone was an odd blend of wistfulness and bitter resignation, and Wheeljack cursed himself for his thoughtless insensitivity – how could he have been so _rude?_

_*Speed isn't everything,*_ he said, keeping his tone light and casual. _*You'd beat me in the long haul.* _

_*I guess,*_ Trailbreaker replied moodily.

He pulled back around and resumed the road when Trailbreaker pulled even with him again. _*So where are we headed? I forgot to ask.* _

_*There's this scenic overlook a little further up the mountain,*_ Trailbreaker explained. _*I happened across it while I was out on patrol the other day. I pulled off to scan for Decepticon energy readings, and there it was. The view is really spectacular; I was going to show it to Hound–*_ he broke off abruptly, the link going quiet.

_*Sounds interesting; I'd love to see it,*_ Wheeljack replied. _*Lead the way.*_

Trailbreaker pulled ahead, and Wheeljack fell in behind him.

He was careful to remain in that position for the rest of the drive.

* * *

The view really _was_ spectacular.

It went on for miles, tall, jagged peaks stretching out endlessly in either direction, the steep drop falling sharply away until it reached the timber line, where it was overtaken by a cavalcade of majestic snow-covered pines. Still further out, looking almost misty in the distance was a broad patchwork blanket of fields and pastures spreading out toward the horizon. Here and there the silvery glint of a river peeked through, glittering in the late afternoon sunshine.

For a long time they didn't speak at all, simply gazing out in awe at the panoply.

"Hound would have loved to see this," Wheeljack said at last, breaking the silence.

"Yeah," Trailbreaker agreed gloomily. "Sorry for dragging you along instead; I know you're not really interested in this sort of thing. Thanks for coming anyway."

"Thanks for asking," he replied sincerely. "I'm glad I got a chance to see this. It really is amazing."

"You mean it?" Trailbreaker sounded genuinely surprised – but also pleased.

"Yeah, I really mean it," he said.

He really did.

Whether it was due to the peaceful, untroubled vista or Trailbreaker's calm, undemanding presence, Wheeljack wasn't sure, but for the first time in days, he felt truly relaxed. He could feel the tension easing from his servos, leaving behind a sense of simple contentment.

"Seems almost a shame to leave," he said quietly.

"We don't have to take off just yet," Trailbreaker replied. "The sun will be setting soon. If we wait a little while, I bet we'll really be in for a show."

"Sounds good to me," he agreed.

* * *

The sunset had proven well worth the wait.

"Hound's going to be really sorry he missed this," Wheeljack commented.

"I doubt it," Trailbreaker replied bitterly. "I'm sure _Mirage_ is keeping him entertained."

"It won't last," he said encouragingly. "Sure, Mirage is exotic, and attractive, but what do they have in common? Sooner or later he'll get tired of slumming, and Hound will be out on his aft. Or maybe Hound will get bored with _him_, once the novelty wears off. And then he'll come looking for you."

"Fat chance," Trailbreaker replied dejectedly. "It's like you said: Mirage is attractive and exotic. Worse than that, he's _useful_, what with that electro-disrupter device of his. I can't compete with _that._ I'm slow and clunky, nothing but a big energy sink. I'm _worse_ than useless."

"I wouldn't say that," Wheeljack said, startled by the degree of self-loathing in Trailbreaker's tone. "Your force field's a very impressive piece of technology."

"Yeah, one that uses up even _more_ energy," Trailbreaker retorted. "What good's a mod you can't afford to use?"

Wheeljack activated his vocalizer to reply, but Trailbreaker wasn't finished.

"I don't expect you to understand; you're actually _useful_," he continued. "You're fast, and smart, and you come up with all these amazing inventions–"

"At least half of which end up blowing up in my faceplate, and don't work besides," Wheeljack interrupted him, his tone light and teasing. "You may be slow, but at least no one thinks you're crazy."

Trailbreaker looked at him in surprise. "The other 'Bots think you're crazy?"

"What would _you_ call a mech who constantly blows himself up?" Wheeljack asked, amused. "It doesn't bother me. Pit, they're probably right. To come up with the _really_ innovative ideas, you almost have to be a little crazy." He shrugged. "You have to go with your strengths, make strengths out of your weaknesses, if you can. Doesn't do you any good to dwell on 'em."

"You're right, I guess," Trailbreaker acceded. "I just wish I didn't feel like such a _burden_ all the time. If I wasn't such a drain on our resources, I wouldn't feel so bad about the rest of it."

"Maybe I could come up with something," he offered. "I can't turn you into Bumblebee, but I'm sure I could work out a way to increase your efficiency a little. There's got to be a way to reduce your drag coefficient from air friction, or lower your engine-speed to wheel-speed ratio. Maybe we could make you lighter – I could probably work out a way to transfer some of your non-vital components into subspace when you transform–"

He trailed off when he noticed the way Trailbreaker was staring at him.

"What?" he asked. "I won't blow you up, I promise."

"You…you'd do that for me?" Trailbreaker asked.

"Sure," he said with an agreeable shrug. "You said it'd make you feel better, and I kind of feel like I owe you one. I was feeling pretty down before, but _this_," he gestured to the darkening vista, "was really nice. I feel a lot better now, and I have you to thank for it."

It was true. He hadn't realized it until the moment the words left his vocalizer, but he truly was _grateful_ to Trailbreaker. In the past few joors, he hadn't spent so much as an astrosecond thinking about…_that._ His somber mood had lifted, and he'd actually begun to relax, allowing his old confidence to re-emerge.

And he had Trailbreaker to thank for it.

It wasn't just that Trailbreaker was a friendly, easygoing sort of mech. Even his _problems_ – his concerns about his energy demands, his feelings of inadequacy in regards to Hound – even _those_ had helped to lift Wheeljack's spirits and lighten his spark. He'd been programmed to solve problems, after all. It felt good to be presented with one he could actually _fix._

Trailbreaker was still staring at him, his expression a mixture of awe and disbelief.

And gratitude.

"Thank you," Trailbreaker said softly. "Really. I'm – I just…_really._ Thank you."

"No problem," he replied, vocal indicators flashing brightly. "And thank _you_."

* * *

Upon returning to the _Ark_, Wheeljack had bade farewell to Trailbreaker and gone back to his lab to resume his work on the detection panels. The much-needed break had granted him a fresh perspective, and he'd come up with several improvements on the design.

By morning, they were ready.

He'd commed Optimus Prime, Ironhide and Red Alert at the start of his shift to inform them, and within a breem or two, virtually every 'Bot on duty was busy installing them throughout the base.

He was giving Prime a demonstration, proudly explaining how the panels functioned, when Cliffjumper interrupted to announce that a call had just come in on Teletraan-1.

He couldn't help sneering a little as he listened to Dr. Fujiama boast about his new invention. Wheeljack didn't like the gloating human's condescending manner, or the way Fujiama had stolen his spotlight, especially considering the detection panels were the first thing he'd invented since –

He was just plain _rude_, is all. Wheeljack didn't like him.

It wasn't as if the scientist's robot would be anything _special_. Wheeljack had seen some of the so-called "robots" the humans used, and they were exceedingly simple things, well below the level of even the most rudimentary Cybertronian drone. Most were only capable of performing a single function – an incredibly _basic_ function, at that – over and over again. They couldn't perform multiple or complex tasks, and they certainly weren't sentient, let alone sapient.

So Dr. Fujiama's claim that his invention was "the greatest robot ever created by man" was about as impressive, in human terms, as saying "the greatest block tower ever built by a toddler." And he wanted the Autobots to _guard_ it? It was like sending a fleet of tanks to guard a toaster!

Wheeljack wasn't sure if Optimus Prime was genuinely curious about Dr. Fujiama's invention, or just trying to be polite, but either way the result was the same. Prime accepted the doctor's request, and they were ordered to abandon installing the remainder of Wheeljack's detection panels in favor of piling aboard Skyfire to fly out to Japan.

To guard a primitive Earth robot. So the Decepticons wouldn't steal it.

Why would they even _want_ it?

He said as much to Ratchet, when he found himself standing next to the medic while the other 'Bots positioned themselves about the (thankfully high-ceilinged) auditorium and took up guard posts at each of the doors.

"It does seem like a pretty silly assignment," Ratchet agreed. "I guess we'll see what all the fuss is about soon enough. Dr. Fujiama's doohickey is under that drape."

Wheeljack glanced toward the stage in the direction Ratchet had indicated. "If it walks, it probably needs a long extension cord," he said.

Ratchet chuckled, "I wonder if batteries are included?"

He snickered. "When they turn it on, it'll probably blow the lights," he predicted.

Unfortunately, Optimus Prime chose that moment to walk by and overheard his comment. "We're here to guard the robot, not make jokes at its expense," he said reprovingly.

Wheeljack suppressed a sigh. Maybe the humor _had_ been a little mean-spirited, but it had felt good to swap jokes with Ratchet again like everything was normal. For a moment, it had been just like old times.

Now that moment was over.

The two of them fell into a chagrined silence, refraining from making any additional comments as Dr. Fujiama appeared onstage and unveiled the new robot.

Wheejack had to admit, it _did_ look better than he'd expected. Sparkplug's attempt with "Autobot X" hadn't been nearly so…aesthetic. He suspected a lot of the impressed reactions from the other 'Bots were due to the fact that Fujiama's robot was a femme, and one who bore a striking resemblance to a pleasure-drone, besides. He highly doubted it was because she was such a technological marvel.

He was kind of tempted to tell the good doctor that; see how boastful he was after he learned his creation looked like the Cybertronian equivalent of a human sex toy.

Beside him, Wheeljack heard Ratchet suppressing a snicker; it was obvious Ratchet was thinking the same thing. They exchanged an amused look before returning their attention to the stage, where Dr. Fujiama was endeavoring to explain how his robot ninja would benefit mankind when ninjas had historically served primarily as assassins.

That was when the Decepticons attacked.

They blasted through the door that Trailbreaker had been guarding, taking him out before he could erect his force field. Rumble and Frenzy charged in first, immediately putting their pile-drivers to work to weaken the structure of the building. Laserbeak soon joined them, and their combined efforts triggered a panicked stampede of fleeing humans.

Megatron showed up next, followed by Soundwave. The ensuing battle was fast and brutal, and by the time it was over, the ninjabot had been stolen and several of the Autobots had been damaged. Prime had been shot by Megatron, as had Bluestreak, taking a fusion cannon blast meant for Optimus. Prowl had taken a hit from Laserbeak, Soundwave had shot Brawn, and Ironhide had been half-crushed by falling support beams when the roof had collapsed.

Surveying the damage as Optimus Prime apologized to Dr. Fujiama, Wheeljack exchanged another look with Ratchet.

This time, it wasn't amused.

They had their work cut out for them.


	7. Association

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers. This chapter contains references to the G1 cartoon episode _"Enter the Nightbird."_ Additional episodes will be referenced in future chapters.  
> **Chapter Warnings:** PTSD angst, references to rape.

**Chapter 7: Association**

"Damage appears to be minor," Wheeljack said, completing his brief assessment of Prowl's injuries. "Must have only been a glancing hit. Your regenerative systems should have you back to optimal in about a joor."

Prowl nodded. "Thank you, Wheeljack."

Ratchet had set up a kind of triage in Skyfire's hold during the flight back from Japan, and together he and Wheeljack were working to ensure that each of the damaged mechs received a thorough examination. The most critical or potentially spark-threatening injuries were addressed immediately with field patches and other stopgap emergency repairs, while less urgent or more complex repairs were left to be handled back at the base, where they had access to a fully equipped repair bay.

Wheeljack glanced over to where Ratchet was busy with Bluestreak. The gunner had taken a direct hit from Megatron's fusion cannon, and that was _never_ a good thing. Megatron had gotten Prime, too, but the matrix-bearer could walk away unharmed from an attack that might extinguish the spark of another mech, and Optimus wouldn't allow Ratchet to tend to him until he was certain Bluestreak was all right, anyway.

In fact Prime was currently hovering nearby, offering soft words of encouragement to the young mech while Ratchet worked. It was clear – to Wheeljack, anyway – that Ratchet was very concerned about whatever injuries he was dealing with, because he had no sharp reprimand to offer Optimus for still being on his feet.

Wheeljack moved on to Brawn, inquiring about what hurt and where. The minibot had been unable to transform for the trip back to the airport where Skyfire awaited them, and had had to accept a lift from Ratchet. A quick examination confirmed what Wheeljack already suspected – Brawn's transform relays were shot. The injury was in no way spark-threatening, but repairing transform circuitry was touchy work. It would have to wait until they got back to the _Ark._

After another glance at Ratchet, he moved on to Ironhide. The security officer was a mess. It was a testament to Ironhide's considerable fortitude that he was still online and moving after having what amounted to an entire building fall on top of him. Like Brawn, most of the damage wasn't spark-threatening, but would require extensive time-consuming repairs. Wheeljack clamped off a few torn energon lines and dampened Ironhide's pain receptors to make the old warrior more comfortable. It was all he could do, for now.

Another check on Ratchet revealed that the medic had finally finished with Bluestreak and moved on to Trailbreaker. Trailbreaker's injuries must have been serious; as Wheeljack approached to offer his assistance, he realized that Ratchet was in the process of taking Trailbreaker offline.

"Bad?" he asked quietly, a pang of worry shooting through his spark. True to his word, he'd come up with several workable ideas for modifications to address Trailbreaker's fuel consumption issues, and he hated to think he might never get to implement them. When Wheeljack had offered to look into the problem for him, Trailbreaker had acted so…_grateful._

"He'll be all right," Ratchet replied. "But he's going to need some very delicate repair work on his communications array once we get back to the _Ark._ That explosion all but destroyed it."

Wheeljack cocked his helm quizzically. "So why did you–?"

"Take him offline?" Ratchet finished for him. "I know my patients. Trailbreaker's the type to dwell on this sort of thing if he's given too much time to think about it. It's better if he stays offline until I can take a closer look. Less misery for him; less aggravation for me."

Recalling Trailbreaker's insecurities about his usefulness and the tone of self-loathing in which he had expressed them, Wheeljack nodded with understanding. Trailbreaker's main contribution to the Autobot cause was his force field and his ability to track, transmit and jam communications. Of the two, only the latter required minimal resources to utilize. Given his fears about being a burden due to his energy demands, it seemed unlikely Trailbreaker would take the news of even a temporary loss of what he regarded as his only _useful_ ability with his usual good humor.

"Brawn's transform relays need a lot of attention, and Ironhide's going to need major repairs, but neither of them is in any danger of deactivation," Wheeljack reported. "What about Bluestreak?"

"Better than I expected," Ratchet replied. "Some of his critical circuit pathways got fried, but once I had that under control, I took a look at the rest of the damage, and it's not too bad. He should be up and around in no time. He'd better not push it, though, or he'll answer to me."

He nodded, "And Prime?"

"My next stop," Ratchet replied wearily. "Now that everyone else has been attended to, maybe he'll finally let me take a look at him."

Wheeljack nodded again, "Good luck." He started to turn away, intent on taking a seat and powering down for the remainder of the trip to conserve his energy for the repairs that awaited them upon their return to the _Ark_, but Ratchet's hand on his arm halted him.

"How are _you_ holding up?" Ratchet asked quietly.

The soft words hit him like a blow.

Wheeljack had hoped no one had noticed the way he'd frozen up during the battle when Starscream appeared, but evidently Ratchet had. With all the injured mechs to occupy his attention, Wheeljack hadn't really had time to analyze his reaction, but he couldn't deny that he'd had one. Hearing that shrill, smug, _hateful_ voice again had shaken him to the core.

"I'm fine," he said.

Ratchet gave him a dubious look, one with a healthy dose of "we'll talk about this later" implicit in it, but made no further comment, opting instead to square his shoulders and tackle the challenge of pinning down Optimus Prime long enough to assess his condition. Based on Ratchet's determined expression, Wheeljack surmised Optimus would soon be undergoing a very thorough medical exam, even if Ratchet had to _sit_ on him to get it.

Cycling a sigh through his intakes, he found an unoccupied seat in the shuttle and settled into it, powering down his systems.

* * *

He was jolted back to awareness by Skyfire's voice echoing through the cabin.

"We're nearly home, guys! I just caught a glimpse of the California coastline," the shuttle announced cheerfully.

Wheeljack slowly eased back into his seat, trying to will the tension out of his servos and ignore the frantic pulsing of his spark. Did Skyfire have to sound so slagging _chipper?_ Normally Wheeljack liked the quiet, placid scientist, but right now he wanted to throttle him.

_I guess he's not _always_ cheerful,_ he thought wryly. _I remember how depressed he was back when he first joined us. Trying to come to terms with everything that had changed while he'd been stuck in stasis, all the things he'd lost – Cybertron, his career, his part–_

_Starscream._

Skyfire's partner, back when he'd been an explorer, had been _Starscream._

They'd been colleagues. No, not colleagues, they'd been _friends._

…maybe _more_ than friends.

The energon in Wheeljack's tanks gave an uncomfortable lurch at the realization that he was currently sitting inside the hold of a mech who'd been friends, possibly even interfaced, with _Starscream._

Unlike him, Skyfire had probably been willing. He'd probably even enjoyed it.

_You enjoyed it too._

Primus, he was going to purge again. _Not now,_ he thought desperately. _Not here, not now, not in front of everyone! We're almost there, just hang on..._

Clenching his fists and offlining his optics, he poured every ounce of his will into staying in control, holding perfectly still, keeping his processor utterly blank.

He remained that way until they finally touched down outside the _Ark._

* * *

He managed to disembark from the shuttle with some semblance of calm indifference.

From there it was straight to the repair bay, even though Wheeljack would have preferred to flee to the shelter of his personal quarters or his lab. In the midst of the bustle and confusion of getting all the injured 'Bots inside and onto repair berths, he was able to slip into one of the private rooms – ostensibly to retrieve some tools – and collect himself somewhat.

No longer being on board Skyfire helped. Being in the familiar surroundings of the repair bay helped, too. After a few kliks, he emerged to find Ratchet had already released Prowl and Prime – Prowl had left with Spike, but Optimus was still hanging around – and was presently finishing up the remaining repairs on Bluestreak.

Knowing Brawn would be next on Ratchet's list, Wheeljack went to check on Trailbreaker and Ironhide.

"Take care of him first, I can wait," Ironhide told him as he approached.

"Forget it, Ironhide," Trailbreaker responded good-naturedly. "You're next, no trying to get out of it. You look like the bottom half of a twelve-car pileup."

Ratchet had brought Trailbreaker back online when they'd landed so he could walk to the repair bay under his own power rather than being carried. For the moment, the defense strategist seemed to be in a fairly jovial mood. Based on that, Wheeljack concluded that Trailbreaker either hadn't been told the full extent of his injuries, or as Ratchet had predicted, hadn't had sufficient time to dwell on them.

He started in on the repairs, beginning with Ironhide in spite of the veteran warrior's protests.

As he'd predicted during his initial assessment, the repairs took a great deal of time, but they at least kept his processor occupied. Bored by the wait, the two patients began chatting over his helm as he worked.

The first topic of discussion, naturally, was the ninja-bot. Wheeljack stubbornly tuned out the admiring comments praising Dr. Fujiama's creation.

Eventually they moved on to rehashing the battle, and Wheeljack paid careful attention to that part of their discussion, feeling the tension building up in his servos. Had they noticed his reaction, the way Ratchet had? Were they going to question him about it? If they did, what excuse would he give?

"_Ouch!_ Watch it, Wheeljack!" Ironhide exclaimed indignantly.

"Sorry," he replied sheepishly. In his distraction, he'd moved on to a new section without dampening Ironhide's pain receptors first. He made the necessary adjustments and resumed his work, his circuits heating with embarrassment.

To his profound relief, no mention was made of his role in the battle. The main topic of interest seemed to be the way Optimus had hauled off and decked Megatron mere astroseconds after Megatron had shot him. Wheeljack had to admit, that _had_ been pretty impressive.

From there, the conversation took on a more humorous note as the two 'Bots began swapping jokes and observations about their longtime foes.

"How come the 'Cons are always bustin' through walls, anyway? Don't they know what doors are for?"

"I know, right? It's like they're afraid of them or something!"

"I think they just like blowin' stuff up."

"Megatron needs to work on his villain banter," Trailbreaker said. "I mean, 'Time to disappear, Mirage'? That's real original. I'm sure 'Raj has never heard _that_ one before."

Wheeljack couldn't help but chuckle at that, even though Ironhide's laughter was making it slightly more difficult to work on him. He hadn't realized Trailbreaker was such a funny mech.

"And did you hear what Starscream called us?" Trailbreaker continued. "_'Autoboobs?!_' I'd have fallen over laughing, if I hadn't been on the floor already. He must be trying out some new Earth insults."

"That's nothin'," Ironhide scoffed, "One time he called me 'Rustypants.'"

Trailbreaker frowned, cocking his helm in confusion. "…we don't _wear_ pants."

"Yeah, I know!" Ironhide replied, and the two mechs broke into laughter.

Wheeljack wasn't laughing. He's stiffened at the mere mention of Starscream's name, his tension level skyrocketing. He knew he should make a convincing effort to laugh along with them, but he was too busy trying to keep his hands from shaking long enough to complete Ironhide's repairs.

"All right you two jokers, pipe down," Ratchet called over grouchily. "This is a repair bay, not a comedy club."

Ironhide and Trailbreaker quieted, exchanging guilty looks as Ratchet turned back to Brawn and resumed his work on the minibot. Optimus spoke to Brawn reassuringly, telling him that Ratchet was almost finished. Wheeljack cycled a long draft of air through his intakes and tried to calm his pulsing spark.

That was when the lights went out.

Half a klik later, the alarm sounded.

* * *

There was an intruder in the Autobot base.

Prime and Bluestreak left the repair bay to investigate with Ratchet's nod of approval, leaving him and Wheeljack behind to complete the repairs on Brawn, Trailbreaker and Ironhide. They'd barely gotten started when the others returned with the startling news that the intruder was Fujiama's ninja robot, and that she'd successfully eluded capture and fled the _Ark_ with the World Energy Chip.

The mechs who were able left to pursue and retrieve the scientist's wayward experiment. By then Ratchet had released Brawn, so the minibot went with them. Only Ironhide and Trailbreaker remained behind.

Ratchet left to check on the status of Teletraan-1 and perform any repairs that might be needed. Ironhide went with him, overriding Wheeljack's protest that he wasn't finished with a gruff, "You can pound out the rest o' my dents later; duty calls."

Since Ratchet made no objection, Wheeljack let him go without further argument.

After the two 'Bots departed, Wheeljack turned to Trailbreaker. "I guess you can go too, if you want," he said. "I can't do your repairs in the dark, and there's no sense hanging around here waiting for Ratchet to get Teletraan-1 up and running again. Who knows how long that'll take?"

"I don't mind waiting," Trailbreaker said agreeably. "It's not like I've got anywhere else to be."

"Suit yourself," he replied, turning away to gather up the tools he'd used on Ironhide. "No chrome off my chassis."

A part of him really wanted Trailbreaker to leave. Another part was very uneasy about the prospect of being left alone in the dark. He wished Ratchet would come back. Somehow that would be better.

"Are you all right?"

Wheeljack flinched inwardly. He'd come to dread that particular question. "Sure," he said, as blithely as he could manage. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You just…seem kind of down," Trailbreaker replied.

"I'm fine," he insisted. "I just need some recharge, that's all." _Easier said than done._

"You don't have to stick around on my account," Trailbreaker replied affably. "Go and get some rest. The doc can patch me up when he gets back."

Wheeljack thought about it.

"Yeah, all right," he said, putting his tools away. He started to leave, but stopped halfway to the door. "Stop by my lab later when you have some time free," he said. "I've got some ideas for modifications we can make to increase your fuel efficiency." He hesitated a moment, then added, "That is, if you still want to."

"Absolutely," Trailbreaker said, brightening noticeably. "I'll definitely do that. Thanks, Wheeljack!"

He shrugged. "No problem."


	8. Alienation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers.  
> **Chapter Warnings:** PTSD angst, references to rape, sexual situations.

**Chapter 8: Alienation**

"I can't function like this," he muttered to the ceiling.

_Why did it have to keep happening?_

He'd tried again, really tried. He'd _tried_ to just lie back, power down, and slip into recharge the way he had any of an infinite number of times over the span of countless vorns, but within a few joors, he'd jerked back online, his processor reeling with sensor echoes, his internal fans cycling merrily away.

He was utterly disgusted with himself.

And he was _tired._

Primus, he was so, _so_ tired. What little recharge he'd gotten felt like none at all.

At least he hadn't purged his tanks this time.

After half a breem his cooling fans finally cut off, but his circuits still hummed with a lingering charge. It would be easy enough to take care of. All he had to do was –

_No,_ he thought fiercely. _I'm not doing that._

"I need an inhibitor," he declared to the empty room. "Ratchet be damned, I _need_ one."

He checked his internal chronometer. It was late, well into the small hours of the Earth night. If there was ever a good time to sneak into the repair bay to steal restricted equipment, it was now.

He rose from the berth and left his quarters quickly, before he could talk himself out of it.

* * *

The repair bay was dark and deserted.

Wheeljack couldn't decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Was he really going to do this? If he got caught, he'd be completely slagged, and even if he didn't, it was _wrong._ He couldn't plead ignorance; he was intimately associated with the workings of the repair bay. He knew the rules. He knew they'd been made for a reason.

His hand on the drawer that housed the device he coveted, Wheeljack hesitated, a war waging within him between duty and desperation. The hand gripping the handle shook. Desperation was winning.

"'Jack?"

_Oh, slag._

It took an astrosecond for him to pry his hand free, it was clenched so tightly, but he managed it, and then turned to face the puzzled medic standing silhouetted in the doorway.

"Hey, Ratch," he greeted him guiltily.

"Thought you'd be deep in recharge by now," Ratchet said, still looking puzzled, but now with a healthy dose of worry thrown in. "Trailbreaker said you looked wiped out. Everything okay?"

"Sure," he replied with an awkward shrug. "Everything's fine."

"Was there something you needed?" Ratchet asked, coming further into the darkened room.

Wheeljack fidgeted uncomfortably, rubbing his neck cables in an obvious show of nerves. "Nah, not really," he muttered.

Ratchet drew closer, pinning him with a long, probing look. Wheeljack fidgeted some more under the intense scrutiny.

"Did you come to see me, 'Jack?" Ratchet asked quietly.

Wheeljack stiffened, startled, his processor whirling. What should he say? If he said no, Ratchet would ask what the real reason was. If he confessed the truth, Ratchet might just give him the inhibitor out of pity.

…or he might start yelling and throwing things.

"Yeah," he said quietly, his vocal indicators barely flickering in the dimness. "I…I guess I did."

Ratchet smiled. It was soft, sad, fond sort of smile that was both like and unlike Ratchet. "You could have come sooner, you know," he said. "Primus, you can be so _stubborn_ sometimes."

The complaint was an old one, the tone it was spoken in familiar and reassuring. "But that's why you love me, right Ratch?" he asked teasingly.

Ratchet stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "C'mon," he said finally. "We can talk in my office. I've got some high-grade stashed in my desk. For strictly medical purposes, of course."

"Right," Wheeljack said, chuckling softly. Then his processor caught up with the rest of him. "Wait, talk?" A sudden flash of panic gripped him. "Talk about what?"

Ratchet's easy smile faltered. "You know what," he said. "Isn't that why you came?"

"I – I don't know," he stammered. Had it been? Had it really been the desire for the inhibitor that had brought him here, or had he come secretly hoping to run into Ratchet? Was that why'd he'd hesitated when he could have just taken it and run? Or was he just a liar and a thief?

He cycled his vents in a harsh sigh, turning away from his friend. "I don't know. I don't even know what I'm _doing_ anymore," he said, his vocalizer crackling with frustration. "I just – I just want everything to be _normal_ again! Primus, is that so much to ask?!"

The gentle hand Ratchet laid on his shoulder-strut was surprisingly comforting. "You just need time," he said soothingly. "Give it time, 'Jack."

Maybe it was because he was so utterly exhausted, or due to the stubborn charge still clinging to his circuits, or perhaps some bizarre a combination of both, but to Wheeljack that light, simple touch felt…good. Better than it should have.

A _lot_ better.

Suddenly he found himself thinking about Ratchet in a way he never had before, or at least in a way he never had before Ratchet's sensor-ghost had started paying nightly visits to his CPU. He realized with a start that following the scan, Ratchet's sensor-echo had actually _replaced_ Starscream's, leaving only the memory of the Seeker's voice and touch behind to plague his recharge.

…what if he could replace _them_, too?

He had in part blamed his own…_prudishness_, for lack of a better term – for what had happened to him. If he'd been more like Ratchet, more willing to treat interfacing like it was no big deal, he wouldn't have been such easy prey for Starscream, been so readily taken advantage of. He might have been able to remain in control of himself in spite of the Decepticon's efforts.

To be honest, if he _had_ to pick someone on the _Ark_ to uplink with, Ratchet was a pretty good choice. After all, he knew Ratchet, _trusted_ him, and they'd all but interfaced once already. It wasn't like there would be any nasty surprises.

Not to mention the fact that a decent overload might actually be enough to knock him offline for a few joors.

All in all, there were more reasons to go ahead and do it than there were _not_ to.

The rapid progression of thoughts raced through Wheeljack's processor in the course of mere astroseconds. Ratchet was still standing behind him, his hand on his shoulder-strut, completely unaware of the unexpected detour they'd taken.

He took a moment to compose himself, gathering his courage. For a moment he hesitated, uncertain. Should he _really_ be contemplating this?

_To the Pit with it,_ he thought.

He half-turned toward Ratchet, away from the hand on his shoulder-strut, so that the arm it was attached to ended up wrapped around him in a semi-embrace.

Then he extended his energy field.

As field flares went, it wasn't anything that could be classified as brash or presumptuous, but neither was it tentative. Not a demand, but a solid, inquiring _push._

A clear, unmistakable invitation.

Ratchet's intakes hitched in surprise. "What are you doing, 'Jack?" he asked quietly.

"What's it feel like I'm doing?" he responded in a low, suggestive tone, emitting a second, more insistent pulse and grabbing Ratchet's free hand to run his fingers over the highly tuned sensors lining the palm.

Ratchet backed away, releasing his shoulder-strut and tugging his captive hand free from Wheeljack's grasp. "I mean, _why_ are you doing it?" he asked.

Wheeljack turned to face him. "Isn't it obvious?" he said. "C'mon, Ratch, what's the deal? It's not like you haven't done this before."

"Not with you," Ratchet replied gravely. "Not like this."

"What difference does it make?" he replied, reaching for Ratchet's hand again, but Ratchet flinched back, once more stepping out of his reach. "Slaggit, Ratchet–!"

"No, 'Jack," Ratchet said firmly. "I'm not letting you do this. Not to me, not to yourself."

Wheeljack couldn't believe his audials. Had his _best friend_ just _turned him down?_

"What is this?" he asked, his vocal indicators strobing in the darkness. "Some kind of sick joke?"

"No," Ratchet said quietly. "It's not."

"Well then wh – what the _frag_, Ratchet? I can't believe you – I thought you were my friend!"

"I am," Ratchet replied sadly. "That's why I can't let you do this."

"Why in the Pit _not?_" he demanded.

"Because I know it's not what you really want."

"Don't patronize me, Ratchet, I'm not some stupid sparkling!" he retorted heatedly. "I _do_ want this! I _need_ this, and you're telling me _no?_" He huffed in exasperation. "Since when did you get so choosy? You never needed an excuse to swap paint before; why are you stalling now?"

A chilling revelation overtook him then, one that sucked all the heat out of his frame, interrupting his tirade, defusing his ire.

"It's because it's _me_, isn't it?" he whispered.

"'Jack –" Ratchet began gently.

"No," he said, raising a hand to cut off Ratchet's apology. "No, it's fine. I get it. You don't want some 'Con's _leftovers._" He laughed, low and bitter. "It's okay. I wouldn't either."

He turned to leave, shoulders slumped in defeat.

A hand on his arm stayed him. "'Jack, listen to me–" Ratchet began.

"Don't," he interrupted him, not turning around, hating the way his vocalizer made the word come out like a plea. "Just…don't. I'm going now." He hesitated, then added, "I'm sorry for – I'm sorry. Don't worry; it won't happen again."

The grip on his arm tightened, and he was suddenly spun violently around. Ratchet's optics burned incandescently in the dimness, blazing with some intense emotion Wheeljack couldn't readily identify, but which seemed to be made up of at least two parts anger.

"Listen to me, you little glitch," Ratchet hissed at him fiercely. "This has nothing to do with fragging _Starscream!_ This has everything to do with _you_ and _me._ Don't you _dare_ walk out of here thinking otherwise!"

Wheeljack stared at him for a long time before he finally spoke. "So it _is_ because it's me."

"Dammit, Wheeljack!" Ratchet exclaimed, shoving him back roughly. "You stupid, _clueless_ – do you know how _long_ I've – _Slaggit!_" he turned abruptly and stalked to the opposite end of the repair bay, ranting and muttering the whole way. "Fragging – of all the – can't believe – _ever_ get my hands on Starscream – take him apart – _piece_ by _piece–!_"

Wheeljack picked himself up from where he'd fallen after stumbling from Ratchet's shove. Ratchet was still busy venting his anger, and had worked up quite a head of steam. Soon the tools would start flying.

He opted to slip out quietly before that happened.

* * *

Wheeljack made his way back to his lab, moving briskly down the corridor with an increasingly angry, ground-eating stride.

_Ratchet had turned him down._

He couldn't believe it. His _best friend_ had turned him down!

Granted, he'd never seriously considered interfacing with Ratchet before tonight, but he'd always sort of assumed that if he ever _did_ make an overture, Ratchet would welcome it. Ratchet had never been terribly uptight about that sort of thing. As long as the timing wasn't wholly inappropriate – say, in a repair bay full of severely damaged mechs, or on the battlefield – Ratchet was the sort of mech to seize the moment. He always had been.

…except with Wheeljack.

He'd never taken offense to his exclusion, even after he'd noticed it. Ratchet was his best friend, and that was good enough for Wheeljack. If Ratchet wasn't interested in 'facing with him, he was fine with that. If Ratchet _was_, he was fine with that, too. If Ratchet had been the one to ask _him_, Wheeljack wouldn't have turned him down, told him _no_. It was _Ratchet_, after all.

He'd always assumed Ratchet felt the same way. The possibility that his advances might be rejected hadn't even occurred to him.

Wheeljack realized now that it _should_ have.

Obviously it wasn't just a simple lack of interest that had kept Ratchet away this long. It was something more than that, some larger reason why Wheeljack didn't just rank low on Ratchet's list of potential partners, but had in fact been crossed off it entirely.

His first thought was that it was because of what Starscream had done, but Ratchet had said it wasn't.

…which meant it was _him_. Something about Wheeljack, something he'd done, maybe, long before Starscream had entered the picture, had made him anathema to Ratchet. Ratchet had all but admitted it.

Which made his exclusion much more…_personal._

_Frag him,_ Wheeljack thought bitterly. It probably _was_ because of Starscream, and Ratchet just didn't want to admit it. Ratchet hadn't been shy about jacking into him to run the scan, so why would he hesitate now? Sure, that hadn't been an interface _technically_, but in terms of mechanics, it amounted to the same thing.

Anyway, he'd come up _clean._ Whatever was stopping Ratchet, it wasn't the fear of picking up some Decepticon virus from Wheeljack's CPU. _That_ he could have forgiven. An aversion to foreign code was precisely why Wheeljack avoided uplinking with mechs he didn't know well himself; he could hardly blame Ratchet for sharing that attitude. But that clearly _wasn't_ what Ratchet was afraid of.

What else was there? What was it about an uplink with Wheeljack – a _real_ one – that was so different from anything they'd already done? Apart from the lack of an overload, of course.

The answer struck him like a thunderbolt. _ A true uplink goes both ways._

It wasn't that Ratchet didn't want to access Wheeljack's CPU. It was that he didn't want Wheeljack gaining access to _his._

Didn't want Wheeljack to find out what Ratchet _really_ thought of him.

He halted in midstride, nearly within sight of the door to his lab, his shoulder-struts drooping. "Frag, Ratch…" he sighed reproachfully.

For the second time in as many days, Wheeljack felt like he'd lost his best friend.


	9. Ambush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers.  
> **Chapter Warnings:** PTSD angst, references to rape, sexual situations.

**Chapter 9: Ambush**

He'd spent the rest of the night tinkering in his lab.

Recharging was out, so he'd decided to have another go at creating a device that would mimic the effects of a processor inhibitor.

He wasn't having much success. He didn't really have the right equipment to make one, and even if he had, even if he'd been able to come up with something, the thought of actually _using_ it gave him pause. One minor miscalculation somewhere in the schematic, and he could end up frying his CPU.

As desperate as he was, that was just too much of a risk.

So he'd scrapped the idea, retrieved the energon cube he'd stashed in his subspace, and simply sat and brooded, sipping occasionally.

He still couldn't believe Ratchet had rejected him. That stung. The realization that Ratchet might not feel as strongly about their friendship as Wheeljack did, that perhaps he never _had_, stung even more.

It was also incredibly embarrassing. Under normal circumstances, Wheeljack didn't make overtures toward other mechs unless he was reasonably confident the desire was mutual. Ratchet hadn't given any such indication of interest, yet Wheeljack had bulled on ahead regardless.

How stupid must he have looked, flaring his field at Ratchet like that? It was beyond pathetic. Ratchet had even said as much, called him stupid and clueless.

At least he wasn't on duty again until the following day. If there were no injuries, he might even be able to avoid the repair bay entirely. He didn't relish the thought of working side by side with Ratchet again after tonight. It was bound to be awkward.

He cycled a sigh through his intakes. Things between himself and Ratchet had been strained enough already, what with…everything that had happened.

Now they would be unbearable.

Finishing his impromptu energon break, Wheeljack got to his feet. He was in the process of dispersing the empty cube when the wave of depression hit.

He was _alone._

He'd thought that was what he wanted – to be left alone, to have no one looking at him, evaluating his behavior, asking if he was all right, wanting him to talk...

No company. No questions.

No _friends._

He sank to the floor, weak with despair.

He missed Ratchet. He missed Sparkplug and Bumblebee. He missed the way he used to be with them – easygoing, relaxed, confident.

He missed the old Wheeljack.

* * *

"Okay…just one more quick adjustment and we'll be ready to test it out," he said.

Trailbreaker's query ping had interrupted what had been shaping up into a full-blown pity party. Wheeljack had been pathetically grateful for the interruption, not to mention the distraction Trailbreaker's ensuing visit provided. They'd spent the past few joors in his lab, first discussing and then implementing what they'd deemed was the most promising of Wheeljack's ideas to increase Trailbreaker's fuel efficiency.

"Thanks again for doing this," Trailbreaker said with sincerity. "I know I keep saying that, but I'm really grateful, and I just don't know what else _to_ say. It means a lot to me."

"Like I said, it's no problem," Wheeljack reassured him. He thought about adding more to that, something about Trailbreaker's uncanny timing, the way he always seemed to show up to offer a distraction or an emotional boost just when Wheeljack needed it most, but decided against it. Trailbreaker would probably ask him to explain what he meant by that, and that would involve a bit more self-disclosure than Wheeljack was comfortable with. So he let his statement lie.

"You really think this will lower my energy consumption?" Trailbreaker asked again.

"By roughly fifteen to thirty percent, yes," he replied, more amused than annoyed by the repetition. "At least in theory. We'll have to run some tests once I get the mods in place, see what the readings say."

"How much longer?" That question, too, had become quite familiar.

"Just a klik," he replied, tightening one last coupling and surveying the results with satisfaction. "_There._ Done."

Trailbreaker looked startled, almost apprehensive. "I don't _feel_ any different," he said after a moment. "What happens now?"

"Now we run those tests I mentioned."

Wheeljack led him over to where he'd set up the equipment needed to review the results of the modifications, and began making the necessary connections with brisk efficiency, plugging the leads of the various testing devices into the appropriate medical access ports located throughout Trailbreaker's frame.

Trailbreaker's intakes hitched when Wheeljack made the third connection, a brief, bright spark leaping between his fingers and Trailbreaker's secondary medial access port.

"Sorry," they said almost simultaneously.

Trailbreaker laughed nervously. "You really think–" he began.

"Yes," he interrupted, his vocal indicators flashing with amusement. "By fifteen to thirty percent."

"I'm sorry," Trailbreaker apologized with obvious chagrin. "It's not that I think you don't know what you're doing, it's just…I can hardly believe it myself."

"It's all right," he replied. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

He initiated the test sequence.

* * *

The modifications had worked.

He'd run Trailbreaker through the entire sequence twice, having him rev his engine at varying RPMs over a series of prearranged intervals, and Trailbreaker had passed with flying colors. The readouts indicated his fuel efficiency had increased by approximately twenty-eight percent, far exceeding Wheeljack's expectations.

His vocal indicators flashed brightly as he announced the results.

"You did it," Trailbreaker whispered in amazement. "You really did it."

"Yep," he replied cheerfully. The look of startled wonder on Trailbreaker's faceplate was immensely gratifying. "Your energy requirements are still a little on the high side compared to some of the smaller 'Bots, but they're on a par with most of the larger ones. It's a definite improvement."

"Thank you," Trailbreaker said sincerely, reaching to grip his shoulder strut. "_Really._ You don't know what this means to me."

A faint flicker of unease shivered through him in response to Trailbreaker's tone, to the touch, to his proximity, but Wheeljack did his best to quash it. Trailbreaker certainly wasn't going to _hurt_ him, not after what he'd just done for him, not with the way Trailbreaker was looking at him, admiration and gratitude glowing in his optics. He was perfectly safe. There was no reason to get all..._twitchy._

"Well," he said with more heartiness than he felt, "Let's get you unhooked." He began severing the connections between Trailbreaker and the test equipment, removing the plugs from each of Trailbreaker's ports in no particular order, feeling somewhat relieved to have an excuse to avoid meeting Trailbreaker's optics.

He was leaning forward slightly to reach the final plug connected to Trailbreaker's upper lateral access port when Trailbreaker grabbed hold of his free hand.

He straightened, raising his helm to meet Trailbreaker's gaze, intending to question this curious action, but as he did, he heard Trailbreaker whisper his name, in a voice even lower and deeper than usual.

_"Wheeljack,"_ Trailbreaker said.

That was when he felt Trailbreaker's energy field extending to brush lightly, almost teasingly against his own.

It wasn't anything like Starscream's had been, Wheeljack would realize later – Trailbreaker's approach was far more tentative than the Decepticon's, little more than a barely-there flicker, subtle and gently inquiring – but it was nevertheless the first field flare Wheeljack had experienced since...it happened.

...which probably explained his downright _panicked_ response.

He flinched and recoiled, inadvertently yanking the last plug still gripped tightly in his hand free from Trailbreaker's port with far more force than was necessary or likely comfortable for the larger mech. In his haste he stumbled, jarring the nearby table and sending a number of tools tumbling to the floor with a loud, echoing crash.

Wheeljack gripped the edge of the table hard enough to dent his own fingers, fighting to stay in control, trying to will himself calm. He forced himself to raise his helm, to meet Trailbreaker's wide, startled optics.

Trailbreaker hastily averted his gaze, looking utterly mortified. "S-sorry," he stammered. "I – sorry, I thought maybe – but you're not –" he shook his helm, huffing in disgust. "Of _course_ you're not. Primus, I'm so _stupid!_ You were just being nice…" he muttered.

Wheeljack just stared at him, his spark pulsing wildly, too stunned to reply.

"I'm really sorry," Trailbreaker babbled with chagrin as he backed toward the door. "I shouldn't have – I-I'll just get out of your way. Maybe later we could...no. No, I-I guess not. Um. Thanks. Sorry," he concluded awkwardly.

His departure from Wheeljack's lab was a hasty one.

* * *

It took Wheeljack roughly half a breem to collect himself enough to move again.

Once the feeling of raw panic had receded, embarrassment swept in to take its place. Trailbreaker's shy overture had been perfectly polite, even conservative by most standards, and Wheeljack had overreacted in the extreme. Primus knew what Trailbreaker thought of him now.

It had just been so..._unexpected._

He wasn't overly accustomed to being propositioned – he suspected it had something to do with the likelihood of explosions occurring in his immediate vicinity – but there had been occasions now and then when one mech or another had expressed an interest, and Wheeljack had always taken it in stride, accepting or declining as it suited him.

Until _now._

This time, his reaction had been instant, automatic. The unanticipated press of another mech's energy field against his own had triggered a reflexive, instinctive urge to flee. Even now that Trailbreaker had gone, even knowing he'd never meant him any harm, Wheeljack still felt shaken and uneasy.

He returned to his quarters. His lab no longer felt secure.

Dimming the lights, stretching out on the berth, and powering down his systems went a long way toward soothing his agitated CPU. He lay quietly for nearly a joor, unmoving, letting the tension slowly bleed from his servos.

As he calmed, he began to think.

He thought about his theory that the sensor ghosts Starscream had left behind in his processor might be replaced by other, more recent ones, ones from a mech he'd chosen.

He thought about Ratchet, and about how Ratchet had rejected him, and how that refusal had prevented him from putting that theory to the test.

He thought about Trailbreaker, about his gratitude, his obvious interest, his calm, undemanding presence – a presence Wheeljack had found quite relaxing and congenial in all of their recent interactions.

Granted, he didn't know Trailbreaker as well as he did Ratchet or some of the other 'Bots, but he'd never heard anyone speak _badly_ of the defense strategist. Nothing in Trailbreaker's demeanor suggested he was anything other than what he appeared to be – mellow, easygoing, funny, a little insecure.

It occurred to him that he could do a lot worse.

He checked his internal chronometer. It was getting on toward evening; the tests and modifications he'd performed on Trailbreaker had taken up the better part of the afternoon. Trailbreaker had mentioned while they were working that he was off-duty today, so the odds were good he was still around, enjoying the remainder of his time off somewhere on the _Ark_.

A quick inquiry to Teletraan-1 provided Wheeljack with all the information he required.

He left his quarters quickly, before he could change his mind.


	10. Awkwardness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers.  
> **Warnings:** PTSD angst, references to rape, inadvertent/ambiguous dub-con.  
> **Author's Note:** Due to content, this chapter gets an additional trigger warning.

**Chapter 10: Awkwardness**

Trailbreaker seemed very surprised to receive his query ping.

Even after opening the door and finding Wheeljack standing outside, Trailbreaker still looked like he couldn't quite believe what his optics were scanning.

"...Wheeljack," he said after a brief, flustered silence.

"Hey," he greeted him blithely. "Mind if I come in?"

Trailbreaker looked absolutely astonished. "S-sure," he stammered, stepping back to admit him.

"Thanks," Wheeljack said as he entered, taking a moment to glance around.

Trailbreaker's quarters were...nice.

Trailbreaker appeared to be a fairly tidy mech, but not obsessively so; a small amount of personal clutter gave the room a lived-in look. The principal decorations were an assortment of Earth plants housed in small containers – one trailing leafy fronds over a hanging basket suspended from the ceiling in the far corner, several brightening the workstation with colorful flowers, a small, spiky cactus in a painted ceramic pot occupying the berthside table –

Distracted by the décor, he abruptly realized Trailbreaker was staring at him, clearly awaiting an explanation for Wheeljack's unexpected visit to his personal quarters.

"I came to apologize," he said simply.

Trailbreaker looked startled. "Apolo – to _me?_" he asked incredulously.

"Yeah," Wheeljack replied. "I was, uh, kind of surprised when you..." he trailed off, noting Trailbreaker's mortified expression. "It's just, I figured you were interested in Hound –"

"_Hound?_" Trailbreaker repeated, laughing a little. "No, not Hound. Not like _that_, anyway. I mean sure, we've hooked up before, but that was before he started seeing Mirage. And it was never, you know, _serious_. Just friends."

"Right," he said, nodding. "I figured it must be something like that, since you –"

"Yeah," Trailbreaker interrupted, still looking embarrassed. "So, uh…does this mean you _weren't_ offended?" he asked hopefully.

"Not at all," he replied, vocal indicators flashing agreeably. "Just...surprised."

"Oh," Trailbreaker said, looking faintly puzzled. "That's good."

"I, uh, don't really get a lot of offers," he admitted sheepishly.

"_Oh,_" Trailbreaker said with greater understanding. "But you_ have–?_"

"Oh, yeah," he replied quickly. "Sure, of course. It's just, you know...been a while."

_Starscream doesn't count_, he told himself.

Trailbreaker asked with a low chuckle, "How long is 'a while'?"

_Ratchet doesn't either._

"...since Cybertron," he confessed reluctantly.

"_Wow_," Trailbreaker said, impressed. "That _is_ a while."

"Well, no one's really asked me," he replied, a touch defensively. "It's not like I've got mechs beating my door down. Crazy inventor, tends to blow himself up–"

"I don't think you're crazy," Trailbreaker said softly, edging closer.

"Maybe just a little," Wheeljack whispered back as Trailbreaker closed on him, feeling a faint, familiar tingling sensation creeping through his circuitry

Was he really going to do this? _Could_ he do this?

A part of him wanted to. Another part was terrified.

This time, when Trailbreaker's energy field brushed inquiringly against his own, Wheeljack was ready for it. He suppressed a hitch in his intakes and responded with an answering pulse, matching Trailbreaker's intensity, synching their frequencies.

He managed not to flinch or stiffen when Trailbreaker reached for him, running eager hands over his frame.

_I can do this,_ he thought vehemently. _I have to do this. I _need_ to do this._

He steeled himself, and began to touch Trailbreaker in return. Countless cycles of assisting Ratchet in the repair bay had left Wheeljack with an excellent working knowledge of other build types, including a general awareness of the overall layout of each individual Autobot's sensor nets. If his memory files were accurate, Trailbreaker should have a particularly dense cluster of sensor nodes right..._there._

The action elicited a startled moan and the soft ticking sound of Trailbreaker's internal cooling fans activating. The persistent fingers that had been probing hopefully along the seams in his armor suddenly redoubled their efforts.

"I'm no medic," Trailbreaker breathed urgently into his audial. "Tell me where."

Wheeljack hesitated, feeling strangely reluctant to reveal his own hot spots, to willingly hand over the keys to his chassis. To buy himself some time, he sent a series of slow, steady pulses through his energy field, letting them wash over Trailbreaker.

That, as it turned out, was a mistake.

Trailbreaker was quick to respond in kind, revving his engine and transmitting his own set of swift, heavy pulses. Wheeljack's cooling fans stuttered to life as his core temperature jumped, responding to the surge of pleasure sparking through his circuits. His fingers slipped, his knee-joints suddenly turning to water –

"Whoa there," Trailbreaker said as he caught and lowered him gently to the berth. "It really _has_ been a while for you, hasn't it?" he commented teasingly, stroking Wheeljack's chestplate affectionately. "Don't worry about getting there before me," he said reassuringly. "I know how it is. Just relax and leave the driving to me. I'll take care of you."

The next thing Wheeljack knew, he was lying on his back in Trailbreaker's berth, Trailbreaker's firm, insistent hands moving over his frame, his energy field pulsing hot and hard against Wheeljack's own, and it felt _good_, but at the same time, hideously familiar and _wrong –_

A cold wave of terror washed over him, freezing his spark, chilling him to the core.

_It's happening again._

He couldn't move; he was immobilized by fear. He couldn't speak; his vocalizer refused to function.

_Stop,_ he thought desperately, _Please stop._

But Trailbreaker didn't stop, didn't seem to notice his distress. Trailbreaker continued to explore his chassis with remarkable care and thoroughness, mapping every plane and angle with his hands, memorizing every dip and curve. Throughout it all, no word of protest escaped Wheeljack's recalcitrant vocalizer; the only sounds it produced were quiet whimpers and soft, helpless moans.

Too frightened to resist, Wheeljack could only offline his optics and cling to Trailbreaker's shoulder-struts, quivering in response to his touches, silently praying that Trailbreaker wouldn't want to conclude the act by uplinking with him. Every astrosecond that passed was spent in dread of the next, gripped by the fearful certainty that any moment now, Trailbreaker would reach for his chestplate, open him up and plug himself in...

Primus saw fit to answer his prayer, or perhaps Trailbreaker didn't believe in uplinking during a first interface, but for whatever reason, Trailbreaker limited his efforts to manipulating Wheeljack's energy field and stimulating the sensors covering his frame.

Regrettably, that was enough.

Wheeljack's inevitable overload filled him with a horrible despair.

* * *

The aftermath of their intimate encounter had been incredibly awkward, at least for Wheeljack.

Somehow, he'd gotten through it. He'd managed to nod at all the appropriate intervals, to behave as if he had enjoyed himself. He'd done everything he could to keep Trailbreaker from realizing anything was amiss, even thanked him for his generosity in not expecting him to reciprocate.

"You can make it up to me next time," Trailbreaker had replied genially.

_Next time._

Wheeljack didn't want there to _be_ a next time.

But he didn't dare tell Trailbreaker that. Wheeljack had gone to him, not the other way around. Trailbreaker had been ready to accept his refusal until Wheeljack had withdrawn it.

He'd _asked_ for it. He'd _invited_ it. He'd willingly accepted Trailbreaker's advances.

And when he changed his mind, he hadn't told Trailbreaker to stop.

Wheeljack paused long enough to enter the locking code at the door to his quarters and then retreated inside. He sank onto the berth with a heavy sigh, overwhelmed by the enormity of the mess he'd gotten himself into.

He couldn't tell Trailbreaker he didn't want to interface with him again, not without coming across as fickle, or a liar. None of the usual excuses would suffice. He couldn't claim he wasn't interested; he'd already indicated that he was. He couldn't claim the encounter had been unsatisfying; he'd overloaded, Trailbreaker hadn't.

There was only one truly plausible reason Wheeljack could give as to why he was loath to pursue an intimate relationship with Trailbreaker, but unfortunately, that reason had everything to do with a recent incident involving himself and a certain Decepticon Second-in-Command.

Wheeljack would sooner be deactivated than reveal _that_ shameful secret.

So he'd had no choice but to agree to meet Trailbreaker the next morning for energon, to spend time with him, to act as if everything was normal.

He'd written this program, and now he had to execute it.

* * *

"Mornin', Wheeljack!" Jazz called cheerfully as he passed the table in the common room Wheeljack had chosen, making him jump.

"Morning," he replied in a subdued tone as he watched Jazz make his way to the energon dispenser. He'd shown up anticipating Trailbreaker would be waiting for him, but Trailbreaker hadn't yet arrived, and the delay was making Wheeljack increasingly uneasy.

He fidgeted with his cube, eyeing the second he'd set on the table across from him for Trailbreaker to mark the seat as taken. He pondered subspacing both and returning to his lab. He could always claim he'd forgotten their plans to meet, lost track of the time –

"Good morning!"

Trailbreaker moved around to take the empty seat opposite him, trailing a hand affectionately across Wheeljack's shoulder-strut as he did so. With a nod of thanks, he picked up the cube and took a sip.

"Recharge well?" Trailbreaker asked as he settled into his seat.

_Try not at all,_ Wheeljack thought grimly. "Sure," he lied. "You?"

"Had a little trouble switching off at first," Trailbreaker said playfully, his tone lightly teasing. "For some reason my circuits were all overheated."

Wheeljack flinched guiltily. "Sorry," he muttered, avoiding Trailbreaker's optics.

"Oh, I didn't mean it like _that_," Trailbreaker replied quickly, looking apologetic. "I don't mind, really! Pit, after all you've done for me, I figure I owed you one. Two or three, even."

Wheeljack nodded, taking a sip from his cube.

Trailbreaker reached for his free hand, covering it with his own. "I'm really glad you came by last night," he said, soft and sincere. "I never dreamed you actually would."

Wheeljack struggled to find a suitable response to that, frantically searching his CPU for the right words to form a reply._ Say something,_ he thought anxiously, his spark twisting in its chamber. Trailbreaker was regarding him closely. _He's looking at you, say something!_

"What's wrong?" Trailbreaker asked, concern and a hint of dread coloring his tone as Wheeljack lowered his gaze.

He couldn't look at him, couldn't bring himself to lift his optics from the cube in front of him. His vocalizer was frozen, his vocal indicators dark and lifeless.

"Is it...is it because of last night?" Trailbreaker inquired hesitantly, almost fearfully, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Did I...did I do something wrong?"

"No," he said quietly, finding his voice at last. "No, you...you were fine. I just...I think I made a mistake. It was….it was too soon."

Trailbreaker stared at him, looking hurt and bewildered. But then a glimmer of understanding lit his optics. "Too fast?" he asked.

"Um...yeah," he said. "I guess, yeah."

"I'm not really one for fast myself," Trailbreaker admitted. "I know I'm the one who made the first move, but I wasn't expecting to go all-out right then and there, or even that night. I just wanted you to know I was interested," Trailbreaker explained. "Personally, I prefer to get to know a mech before I start bumpin' windshields with him."

Wheeljack nodded in agreement.

Trailbreaker looked at him shyly, "But after what you did for me, I figured, what more do I need to know? You're about as good as they get."

"Thanks," Wheeljack said softly, touched by the compliment.

"Plus, Hound knows you, and he said I should go for it."

"Oh," he said.

"I'm not in any hurry, though," Trailbreaker said. "When you said you hadn't overloaded since we left Cybertron, I figured you wouldn't want to wait. But if you'd rather take it slow, that's more than fine by me."

"Yeah," he replied. "Yeah, okay."

"We could go for a drive sometime," Trailbreaker suggested. "Get to know each other better?"

Whheljack thought about the night before, about Trailbreaker's hands moving lovingly over his chassis, and suppressed a shudder. Then he thought about the sunset they'd watched together, the time they'd spent in his lab working on the mods, and how relaxing it had been, how much he'd enjoyed Trailbreaker's company. How grateful he'd been to have it.

To not be alone.

"Sure," he replied. "That...that sounds nice."

Looking strangely relieved, Trailbreaker rose, dispersed his empty cube, and held out a hand. "When are you off duty again?"

Wheeljack subspaced the remainder of his own cube and accepted the proffered hand, allowing Trailbreaker to pull him to his feet. "Tomorrow."

"Shoot, I'm on then," Trailbreaker said, sounding disappointed. "Maybe I can switch with somebody. If I do, I'll comm you."

"All right," he replied.

...maybe it _would_ be.


	11. Assignation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers.  
> **Warnings:** PTSD angst, references to rape.

**Chapter 11: Assignation**

After leaving the common room and saying goodbye to Trailbreaker, Wheeljack headed for his lab. He hadn't taken more than a handful of strides when he got the ping on his internal comm.

He opened a channel. _*Yes?*_

_*Wheeljack, this is Prowl. You're needed in the cargo bay. The Dinobots have gotten into another fight, and they're refusing to stand down.*_

He groaned inwardly. Incidents like this occurred from time to time, usually when there was a lull in the struggle against the Decepticons. Apart from fighting, there were very few duties his powerful but dim-witted creations were well suited for. Working in the cargo bay was one of the few jobs they could manage; their strength made them invaluable when it came to heavy lifting, and the simple task of loading and unloading supplies didn't tax their slow-functioning processors overmuch.

Unfortunately, the Dinobots were as ill tempered and intractable as they were formidable, and even the smallest disagreement between them could quickly escalate into a full-fledged brawl. When that happened, it wasn't easy to bring them back under control, even with the combined efforts of many Autobots. As their creator, Wheeljack was one of the few 'Bots Grimlock and the others would listen to. When all else failed, they commed him.

_*On my way,*_ he replied with resignation.

_*Quickly, please,*_ came the crisp reply. _*Prowl out.*_

Grumbling, Wheeljack transformed, making excellent time as he shot off towards the cargo bay at top speed.

He'd been very proud of the Dinobots lately. After their disastrous introduction and rather shaky entrance into the Autobot ranks, he'd been hard-pressed to convince the other 'Bots of their value, but recently the Dinobots' intervention had spelled the difference between victory and defeat in several battles against the Decepticons, and attitudes toward them had grown increasingly positive as a result.

But Wheeljack knew that repeated incidents like this one would quickly obliterate that good sentiment, costing the Dinobots most or all of the precious ground they'd gained.

He could admit that the Dinobots weren't one of his more successful inventions, but unlike any of his other failed experiments, Wheeljack couldn't bring himself to simply discard them like so much scrap metal. They weren't mere malfunctioning gadgets – they were _alive._ They had thoughts and feelings, even if those thoughts were exceedingly simple and tended toward arrogance and aggression. He was their creator; he had a responsibility to them, to protect and instruct them, to shield them from harm.

But as strongly as Wheeljack felt about that, coming hard on the heels of his own troubles, this little altercation was the very _last_ thing he needed.

* * *

It took a little over a breem to get the Dinobots back under control.

Fortunately, the damage to the cargo bay and the supplies it contained was minimal. The damage to the Dinobots themselves, however, was significant, and several of the 'Bots who'd endeavored to bring the brawling titans under control had sustained minor injuries as well.

That was the worst part. The damage the Dinobots had inflicted upon each other wasn't irreparable, but it was fairly extensive. Being hardy by nature, they didn't complain. The injured Autobots, however – most of them minibots, and unfortunately among the most vocal – didn't hesitate to make their opinions of both Wheeljack and his creations abundantly clear.

Ignoring their jibes and complaints, Wheeljack herded his rebellious charges toward the repair bay, resolving to have a very stern conversation with Grimlock once their repairs were completed.

Preoccupied as he was, he had completely forgotten about Ratchet.

He halted on the threshold when he caught sight of the medic, all the tension and embarrassment of their most recent encounter rushing back to him.

"Oh, _slag_," he muttered.

"What?" Slag responded. The triceratops was standing at his shoulder, looking up at him inquiringly.

Wheeljack couldn't help but chuckle, in spite of his present mood.

Letting the Dinobots choose their own designations had been Ratchet's idea, but Wheeljack doubted Ratchet had anticipated one of them might chose one of the more colorful words from his own vocabulary when he'd made the suggestion. Ratchet had tried to talk Slag out of it, tried to persuade him to pick a different name, but Slag had been immovable.

Wheeljack had thought it was hilarious. Ratchet had dented his helm for laughing, but it had been worth it. Slag wanted to be Slag, so Slag he was.

"Go on in," he told the Dinobot, suppressing a snicker. "Let Ratchet take a look at you."

Slag nodded and obediently plodded over to where Ratchet was standing – and glaring.

"_Now_ what?" Ratchet demanded irritably. "Don't tell me they've done it _again._"

"'Fraid so," Wheeljack replied, fighting to keep the amusement out of his vocalizer. He waved the others into the repair bay, getting them lined up in order of the severity of their injuries.

His good mood lasted throughout most of the repairs, but as each Dinobot was brought back to optimal function and released, the concerns that had been weighing on his processor promptly returned to the fore.

He watched Snarl, who'd been the least damaged and thus the last to be repaired, depart with some regret.

He was left alone with Ratchet. The tension level in the repair bay increased accordingly.

Wheeljack busied himself with the task of putting away the tools he'd used, studiously avoiding looking in Ratchet's direction.

"Don't tell me you're still torqued off that I turned you down," Ratchet said acerbically, breaking the prolonged silence. "Trust me, 'Jack, it was a bad idea."

"Yeah, I know," he replied, his tone subdued. He'd found out the hard way.

Ratchet looked at him in surprise. Clearly he'd been expecting an argument.

"You were right," Wheeljack conceded, his voice little more than a whisper, vocal indicators barely flickering. "It _was_ a bad idea. I should have listened to you."

Ratchet stared at him, his expression shifting from mild puzzlement to one of dawning horror and disbelief. "Oh, no," he said, almost pleadingly. "Tell me you didn't."

Wheeljack made no reply, only looked away, avoiding his optics.

"Oh, _'Jack_," Ratchet whispered, stricken.

"This is the part where you say, 'I told you so,'" Wheeljack informed him bitterly.

"No," Ratchet replied sadly, coming over and laying a gentle hand on his shoulder-strut. "It isn't."

For a klik they simply stood in silence, unmoving. It was Ratchet who spoke first. "Who was it?"

"Does it matter?" Wheeljack replied bitterly. "It was a mistake. I thought I could – I thought it would help, but…" he trailed off, cycling a sigh through his intakes. "You were right."

After a long pause, Ratchet asked reluctantly, "Was it…bad?"

"Awful," he replied immediately. A crackle of static infused the single word, making him wince. He reset his traitorous vocalizer. "It was awful," he repeated.

Ratchet remained silent, but his grip on Wheeljack's shoulder-strut tightened.

Wheeljack wanted to leave it at that, to let the subject drop entirely, but he _had_ to ask. "You knew what would happen," he said. "How did you know?"

"I'm a medic," Ratchet replied simply.

A pain strangely like grief welled up in his spark. He'd just wanted everything to be normal again, the way it used to be. It was his function to fix things – why couldn't he fix this? He'd tried to approach the situation logically, like he would any other problem, tried to repair it, but he'd only made things worse.

And it _hurt_. No damage, no injury he'd suffered in his entire existence had ever hurt like this. _Pain_ seemed too inadequate a word, _hurt_ too poor a descriptor.

"Does it ever stop hurting?" he asked, bleak but clinging to a faint, desperate hope. "Does it ever get better?"

"Yes," Ratchet said. "But it takes time. A lot of time." He hesitated a moment. "And you have to talk about it."

"No," he said firmly, shaking his helm.

"'Jack –"

"_No,_" he said adamantly. "I'm not talking about it!"

Ratchet's hand on his shoulder-strut gave another squeeze, "You have to, 'Jack. You need to. And you _want_ to. Deep down, I think some part of you knows that."

"I don't _want_ to talk about it!" he protested, shrugging off Ratchet's hand and rounding on him. "I don't even want to _think_ about it! All I ever _do_ is think about it!"

His treacherous vocalizer was emitting pops and crackles of static again. Wheeljack clenched his hands into fists, fighting to stay in control, anger and frustration surging in his spark.

"Why don't we go into my office," Ratchet suggested.

Wheeljack shook his helm, "No, I – not now. I have to talk to the Dinobots, to Grimlock. I have to teach them better self-control. We can't have them tearing up the _Ark_ and each other like this."

Ratchet regarded him for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

"All right," Ratchet relented. "Go and take care of it. But later, I promise you, you and I are going to have a talk."

Dread infused his circuits, causing his spark to clench. "Sure, Ratch," he said reluctantly. "Whatever you say."

He departed quickly, before Ratchet could call him on the insincerity of his tone.

* * *

Working with the Dinobots was no simple task.

Granted, Wheeljack had an easier time of it than most. His status as their creator afforded him a certain degree of respect. He also knew how to talk to them, how to get them to obey his commands, how to phrase his requests in a manner they'd respond to.

The trick, he'd found, was to convince Grimlock.

The other Dinobots invariably followed Grimlock's lead. As the strongest, Grimlock was seen as the de facto king of their small group. Where he led, the rest followed.

The arrogant tyrannosaur was quite enamored of his position as the Dinobots' leader. It was a role he was well-suited for, but also a source of great pride for the hulking mech. Wheeljack had learned early on that any request framed by a recognition of that status would invariably be well-received by Grimlock.

So all he had to do to get the Dinobots to exercise greater self-control was to persuade _Grimlock._ And to convince Grimlock, Wheeljack simply had to explain to him that when the other Dinobots misbehaved, it reflected poorly on _him_ as their leader.

After that, things progressed quite smoothly.

He spent the rest of the day working with the Dinobots, and with Grimlock in particular, coaching them in the use of their abilities, focusing on fine control over raw power. When Grimlock performed well, Wheeljack praised him lavishly, both for his efforts and his leadership abilities. Preening, Grimlock would then turn and demand that his fellow Dinobots perform to the same standard.

Once that pattern had been established, training with the Dinobots was almost…fun. There were a couple of snags along the way, most resulting from the odd bout of clumsiness or some minor dispute, but to Wheeljack's delight, even those incidents were largely handled by Grimlock himself, and required little-to-no intervention from him.

As distractions went, it was one of the better ones he'd come up with, and it provided him with the perfect excuse to avoid Ratchet for a while. It was quite a relief, not having to worry about –

His internal comm pinged.

Stepping away from the Dinobots, Wheeljack responded. _*Yeah?*_

_*Wheeljack!*_ a familiar deep voice greeted him cheerfully. _*It's Trailbreaker.*_

His spark sank.

_*Hey, Trailbreaker,*_ he replied, praying his friendly tone didn't sound too forced. _*What's up?*_

_*You remember how I said I'd comm you if I was able to trade my duty shift with someone?*_ Trailbreaker asked.

_*Yeah?*_ Wheeljack replied expectantly.

_*Well…I couldn't convince anyone,*_ Trailbreaker admitted with obvious chagrin. _*I tried, but everyone I asked turned me down.*_

_*That's okay,*_ he replied, feeling relieved. _*It's not your fault.*_

_*I did have another idea, but…well, I'm not sure you're going to like it,*_ Trailbreaker continued, sounding hesitant and uncertain.

Wheeljack's spark clenched. Apart from their regular off-duty cycles, which were prescheduled, the only leisure time the Autobots were afforded was designated for cleansing, refueling…and recharge. He had his suspicions about what sort of alternate activity Trailbreaker might have in mind.

_*What's that?*_ he asked warily.

_*I was thinking, if you didn't mind, maybe you could join me on my shift?*_ Trailbreaker asked hopefully. _*Ever since I got jumped by the 'Cons that time, Prowl's assigned one of the twins to escort me while I'm out on patrol; they're faster than me and have more firepower.*_

_*Uh-huh,*_ Wheeljack replied, indicating that he should continue.

_*The thing is, you do too, so I figured if _you_ volunteered to go with me instead, Prowl would probably be okay with that,*_ Trailbreaker continued. _*I know the twins would be,*_ he muttered. _*They hate having to tag around after me.* _

_*Right,*_ he said.

_*You'd be giving up some of your off-duty time to put in extra joors on-duty,*_ Trailbreaker explained unnecessarily, sounding simultaneously hopeful and apologetic. _*But at least we'd get to spend some time together.* _

Wheeljack considered the request. Normally he only took on additional duties when a crisis warranted it. He enjoyed his time off, relished having the opportunity to relax, get caught up on his projects, and ponder new ideas at his leisure.

Or at least, he _had._ His newly acquired inability to recharge coupled with a need for near-constant diversion had left Wheeljack more caught up than he'd been in orns. At the rate he was going, he'd soon have to resort to pointless make-work just to keep his processor occupied. Under the circumstances, the prospect of extra duties and less time off was…unusually appealing.

And of course there was Ratchet to consider. Because they often worked together, Ratchet was well acquainted with Wheeljack's duty schedule. Knowing he had tomorrow off, there was a good chance Ratchet would seek him out to…talk.

In which case, Wheeljack surmised, being off on patrol somewhere outside the _Ark_ might be a very good place for him to be.

_*Yeah, okay,*_ he said finally, to Trailbreaker's delight. _*If Prowl's all right with it, I'll go along with you tomorrow.*_

After an exchange of farewells – and no small amount of enthusiastic gratitude from Trailbreaker – Wheeljack closed the comm channel and went back to observing the Dinobots, trying to ignore the tiny flicker of apprehension stirring in his spark.

* * *

Wheeljack fidgeted nervously as he stood just inside the entrance to the _Ark_, waiting for Trailbreaker to arrive.

Mentally he chided himself for his unease. What was he so worried about? It was just a patrol shift, after all. Trailbreaker wouldn't suggest they do anything…_inappropriate_ while on duty.

…would he?

No, of course not. Trailbreaker had a reputation for reliability. He wasn't the type to shirk his responsibilities in favor of…other pursuits.

They'd be in vehicle mode most of the time, anyway.

Shaking off his anxiety, Wheeljack checked his internal chronometer. He was a little early. Trailbreaker wouldn't be _officially_ late for another klik or two.

He peered out at the narrow strip of sky visible from his present position. It was dark and ominous, heavily mantled with storm clouds – fitting weather for his present mood.

Rain was likely, probably imminent. Not a good day for a pleasure drive. The roads would be slick, the visibility poor. In the mountains, it might even be snowing.

As Trailbreaker had predicted, Prowl had readily agreed to allow Wheeljack to substitute for Sideswipe – Trailbreaker's designated escort for the day's patrol – and Sideswipe had been downright _ecstatic_ when he learned he'd been excused from his least-favorite duty.

Wheeljack wondered what Sideswipe would do with his unexpected windfall, and whether Prowl would end up regretting granting the mischievous Lamborghini extra leisure time.

He wondered if _he'd_ end up regretting it, too.

"You're early," Trailbreaker said from behind him, making him jump. He sounded dismayed. "I hope you haven't been waiting too long."

"Nah, not really," he replied with a shrug.

Trailbreaker glanced out at the darkening sky. "Ugh. Lousy weather," he commented. Turning back to address Wheeljack directly, he added brightly, "But at least we'll have a chance to talk!"

He nodded. "So I should just...follow you?" he asked, discomfited by Trailbreaker's steady gaze and hopeful smile.

"Yup, that's it," Trailbreaker replied. "I scan, you follow. Ready to go?"

"Sure," Wheeljack agreed.

They transformed and rolled out.

* * *

Wheeljack counted himself lucky that patrols weren't a part of his regular duties.

The weather hadn't held. Predictably, within a few kliks of their departure from the _Ark_, the sky had opened up and proceeded to dump a truly impressive quantity of water onto the two Autobots. It wasn't harmful – Cybertronians could tolerate total immersion without suffering any damage to their vital components – but neither was it pleasant.

Their patrol route currently bore more resemblance to a river than a roadway, and they had to endure the constant sensation of cold water – or worse, cold _mud_ – splashing against their undercarriages and into their wheel wells as they drove. The heavy rain also created a kind of intermittent barrier that impeded and periodically reflected their sensors, so every reading had to be laboriously checked and rechecked to verify its accuracy.

The conversation began more as commiseration than anything else.

_*I bet Sideswipe is laughing his aft off right now,*_ Wheeljack commed irritably.

For a few astroseconds the only response was the hiss of dead air over the open channel.

_*I'm really sorry,*_ Trailbreaker said finally, his vocalizer sounding small and tinny over the comm link – a side effect of the rain, perhaps. _*I should have checked the weather before I asked you to come.*_

Wheeljack didn't respond. Saying _Yeah, you should have_ – his first impulse – would be rude and spiteful. It wasn't like Trailbreaker had _forced_ him to come along. He'd agreed to it – without checking the forecast himself, it seemed fair to note – and Trailbreaker could hardly be blamed for something as unpredictable as Earth weather, anyway. So he held his peace.

_*At least there's not much chance of the 'Cons being out in this,*_ Trailbreaker said, struggling to find a bright side to the situation.

_*Then they're smarter than we are,*_ Wheeljack groused. _*Not that we'd know if they were in this slag. I can't see half a meter in front of me.*_

Dead air.

Wheeljack fell into a sullen silence, wallowing in his misery. He became so absorbed in fact, it took him several kliks to register that while water continued to spray out from beneath his tires and splatter against his undercarriage, it was no longer drenching him from above. His core temperature had reclaimed a few of the degrees it had lost since they started out, and his sensor readings were clearer.

Yet the rain hadn't stopped.

He could see it, falling all around him like a silver curtain, but he couldn't _feel_ it.

Wheeljack was just about to reopen the comm link, intent on alerting Trailbreaker to this mysterious phenomenon, when he noticed the faint glow hovering just above him.

A force field.

Suddenly he felt like a complete and total aft.

Sheepishly, he reopened the channel. _*Thanks,*_ he commed.

_*Don't mention it,*_ Trailbreaker commed back.

He sounded pleased.


	12. Ablution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Obligatory Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers.  
> **Warnings:** PTSD angst, references to rape, sexual situations.

**Chapter 12: Ablution**

Upon returning to the _Ark_, they headed straight for the washracks.

Wheeljack had never been one to obsess over his appearance. He wasn't Tracks, or – Primus forbid – _Sunstreaker._ Any minor scuffs or dents he acquired on his chassis were repaired, of course – when he got around to it. Extensive polishing seemed too troublesome and time-consuming to bother with. Looking like an ambulatory mirror wasn't high on Wheeljack's list of priorities.

But he drew the line at _mud._

Wet and fresh, it was slippery and unpleasant. Dry and caked-on, it was gritty and itchy. In either state, it compromised sensors, sifted into joints and servos with every movement, and got all over everything.

And right now, Wheeljack was _covered_ in it.

Trailbreaker seemed to share his opinion on the subject; the defense strategist came along with him. Wheeljack didn't have a problem with that, until they'd actually _entered_ the washracks.

They were completely deserted.

Doing his best to conceal his unease, he nodded and laughed at Trailbreaker's joke about mud getting into the darndest places as he stepped over the threshold. After a brief glance around, he made his way to the far side of the room, switching on the sprayer in a perfunctory manner and stepping under it.

He offlined his optics, cycling a sigh of relief as the warm solvent coursed over his frame, beginning to wash away the worst of the grime that had accumulated on his chassis.

He onlined them again with a jolt when he heard the second sprayer switch on a short – _very short_ – distance to his right. His servos locked into place; suddenly he was too frightened to move. He couldn't even bring himself to turn his helm, even though he already knew what he'd see.

Out of all the wash stations in the room – enough to accommodate over twenty mechs – Trailbreaker had picked one directly adjacent to the one the Wheeljack had chosen.

All he could do was stand there, frozen in terror, staring at the mud and solvent as it ran down his frame in thready rivulets, watching it coil into the drain at his feet, his spark pulsing wildly in its chamber. He could hear the sounds of Trailbreaker's movements nearby – _too_ nearby – the faint squeaks and protests of mud-coated servos as Trailbreaker endeavored to cleanse himself of the unwelcome organic substance.

At first he felt as if he might remain that way forever, but after a few kliks passed with no indication from Trailbreaker that he was even aware of Wheeljack's presence – not a word, not a gesture – he relaxed slightly, and found he was able to move again. He resumed his efforts to remove the mud from himself, focusing all his attention on that simple task.

"Want me to do your back?" Trailbreaker asked.

Wheeljack's helm jerked up. "What?"

"Your back," Trailbreaker repeated. "I'll do yours if you'll do mine. I'd appreciate a hand; I can't reach on my own." He laughed. "Figures that's always where most of the mud ends up."

Wheeljack wanted to refuse, wanted desperately to say 'no,' but what reason could he give, what excuse did he have? The request was hardly unusual, albeit one typically reserved for close acquaintances.

Which of course they _were_, strictly speaking. They'd interfaced, after all.

"Sure," he consented, fighting to keep the strain from his vocalizer.

Trailbreaker took a step toward him, but Wheeljack quickly raised a hand to stay him. "You first," he said.

Trailbreaker smiled, "All right," he said, turning around and offering his back.

Grabbing one of the stiff brushes provided at each wash station, Wheeljack hesitantly took hold of Trailbreaker's shoulder-strut to steady himself.

That was when he noticed his hands were shaking.

Gripping the brush tighter in an effort to quell the involuntary tremors, he set to work on Trailbreaker's backstrut, which was heavily clogged with silt. His initial efforts were probably more vigorous than was comfortable, but Trailbreaker made no complaint; he remained completely still and silent while Wheeljack worked.

Within a few kliks Trailbreaker's backstrut was spotless and gleaming, and Wheeljack moved on to his shoulder-plates, taking care to scrub underneath where the grit could invade the gaps and compromise sensitive circuitry.

"Mmmm," Trailbreaker hummed appreciatively. "That feels _amazing_."

Wheeljack was so startled he nearly dropped the brush.

_Idiot!_ he chided himself mercilessly. _There's a sensor cluster there! Now he thinks you're – _

"Don't stop," Trailbreaker said, interrupting his thoughts. "You're great at this."

"Thanks," Wheeljack muttered, reluctantly applying the brush once more.

This time his strokes were far more tentative.

"Hound's terrible," Trailbreaker elaborated conversationally. "Don't tell him I said so, but don't ever let _him_ do your back. He'll take your paint off!"

"I'll remember that," he replied absently, intent on his task. In his CPU, he'd pulled up Trailbreaker's medical file and was carefully mapping out the most heavily sensor-laden regions of Trailbreaker's chassis, all the places he thought it best he avoid.

Naturally, _those_ spots were just as muddy as the rest.

Feeling trapped and desperate, his spark surging in near panic, Wheeljack began scrubbing faster, determined to finish as quickly as possible. He forced himself to include the areas he would have preferred to skip entirely, but he couldn't bring himself to press as firmly as he knew he ought to, to ensure every trace of mud was removed.

In hindsight, it probably would have been better if he _had._

When Trailbreaker _groaned_ and pulled away, turning to regard him with glowing optics, Wheeljack realized too late that his gentle, hesitant strokes might have been interpreted as deliberately _erotic. _

"Enough," Trailbreaker rumbled. "Your turn."

Wheeljack stood frozen as Trailbreaker took the brush from his trembling hands and step behind him. He didn't flinch when Trailbreaker rested a hand on his shoulder-strut for balance, just as had he done; he held very, very still.

He _did_ flinch when the brush made contact with his backstrut.

"You're really tense," Trailbreaker commented as he scrubbed.

Processing quickly, Wheeljack replied, "Stress. The Dinobots have been acting up again." Fearing further questions, he did his best to will the tension out of his taut servos, and was rewarded when his shoulder-struts eased slightly.

"They do seem to do that a lot," Trailbreaker said, still scrubbing.

"Certainly more than I'd like," he responded. "Every time I think they've finally been accepted, they get into trouble again, and end up right back where they started." He cycled a weary sigh through his intakes. "Naturally everyone blames me, because –"

"…because you're the one who built them," Trailbreaker concluded for him. "I guess that's understandable." He leaned closer to reach a stubborn clot of mud wedged into a transformation seam running up Wheeljack's side, adding, "On the other hand, they _have_ saved our tailpipes more than once."

"Yeah, but no one remembers _that_ when they're trashing the cargo bay," Wheeljack replied bitterly. "I've been working with them, but there's only so much I can do. They're just…big and clumsy. They can't help it."

"Nobody's perfect," Trailbreaker agreed. "Raise your right arm a little."

He complied with the request without even thinking about it. The steady scrubbing felt good, and the relaxation he'd initially feigned was slowly turning into the real thing.

"I can't just scrap them," he said mournfully. "I won't, not ever. They may not be perfect, but they're _alive,_ they–" He trailed off as the scrubbing suddenly ceased. "What's wrong?" he inquired, peering over his shoulder at the larger mech.

Trailbreaker was staring at him with something akin to awe. "It just hit me," he said, responding to Wheeljack's puzzled look. "You're right – the Dinobots _are_ alive. And _you're_ the one created them."

"Yeah?" he said, confused. "So..?"

"You brought the Dinobots to _life_," Trailbreaker repeated. "_You,_ not Vector Sigma. That's…incredible."

Wheeljack stared at him, realizing abruptly what Trailbreaker was getting at. It was both flattering and embarrassing, and he could feel his circuits heating in response, though he wasn't sure which emotion was responsible. "Well…they're not very bright," he deflected. "And they _do_ tend to destroy things."

Trailbreaker seemed to shake himself. "I guess…it's all in how you look at it," he said slowly, and bent to resume his task.

With a slight difference.

Wheeljack couldn't be sure it was deliberate – he himself had done the same thing unintentionally only a breem ago in complete innocence – but the strokes of the brush were suddenly much slower, softer, and undeniably more _sensual_ than they had been a moment before.

It felt…nice.

A part of him wanted to pull away. Another part wanted to stay right where he was, to see if the gentle strokes would continue, perhaps progress to other, more sensitive areas…

"I think that about does it," Trailbreaker announced, straightening.

Wheeljack turned to look at him in surprise. Trailbreaker wasn't even looking at him; he rinsed the brush carefully, set it back in its niche, and then switched off the sprayers.

"Thanks for tagging along today," Trailbreaker said, turning back and laying a hand on his shoulder-strut. "I know it wasn't exactly what you'd call a _fun_ outing, but I enjoyed it. Maybe we can do better next time."

"S-sure," he stammered.

"See you around."

Wheeljack stared after him for a long time after Trailbreaker had departed.

* * *

He returned to his quarters almost in a daze, keying in the locking code automatically and stepping inside, barely registering the faint hiss of the door as it slid shut behind him.

He moved to the chair at his workstation, turning it around and sinking into it, a myriad of thoughts swirling in his processor, a confusing tangle of emotions tugging at his spark.

Trailbreaker had just…walked out.

Wheeljack had been expecting – _dreading_ – another request to interface. Given Trailbreaker's behavior up to that point – in the washracks especially – it had seemed practically inevitable. Wheeljack had all but resigned himself to having to go through with it.

But instead, Trailbreaker had just said goodbye and walked out.

It was an incredible _relief._

He slouched down in his chair, the tension finally easing from his servos. He'd been wound up tighter than a mainspring all day. He'd been so _sure…_

But Trailbreaker hadn't.

Wheeljack felt an odd surge of gratitude toward the other mech. The past few days had been extremely stressful for him, but now he was clean, comfortable, calm, and relaxed. He felt…good.

And once again, he had Trailbreaker to thank for it.

The thought made him chuckle. After all that had happened between them, he'd assumed – not unreasonably – that he would no longer find Trailbreaker's presence as soothing as he once had.

Yet here he was, sitting at ease in his quarters, thanks to him. He ran a finger down the length of the transformation seam on his right side appraisingly. Not a trace of mud remained. Trailbreaker had done a good job.

_Better than I did on myself,_ he thought ruefully, noting a small clump of grit still clinging to the edge of his chestplate. He stretched to retrieve the cleaning cloth he kept stashed in a drawer at his workstation – more frequently used on his inventions than himself – and buffed away the spot.

It was odd though, the way Trailbreaker had just _left_ like that…

He spied another spot he'd missed and buffed that out too, shaking his helm at his own carelessness.

Trailbreaker had departed in a good mood, to all outward appearances. Wheeljack was reasonably certain he hadn't done or said anything that could be construed as offensive even to the touchiest of mechs, which Trailbreaker definitely wasn't. It seemed unlikely he'd left in a fit of pique.

But he _had_ left, and Wheeljack couldn't fathom why.

Absorbed in his thoughts, his efforts at polishing became increasingly directionless, devolving into half-sparked swipes at random sections of his chassis.

It didn't make any sense. Trailbreaker had opted to use the wash station right next to his own when he'd had the entire room to choose from, even offered to wash the places Wheeljack couldn't reach. On their own, those things weren't _inherently_ suggestive, but they did imply a certain degree of…familiarity.

His fingers absently traced another transformation seam, this time the one at his hip. The polishing cloth slipped from his hand, unnoticed.

Of course it wasn't unheard of for two mechs who were close friends to assist each other in such a way, but it occurred far more frequently between lovers, and for good reason. For many Autobots – particularly those with an exhibitionistic streak – a visit to the washracks with one's lover was a favorite method of foreplay.

His fingers flitted idly across the seam again. He slouched lower in his chair, widening the gap and allowing his fingers greater access to the wires and cables hidden within. His fingertips traced along their length, stroking gently.

Given their recent history, Wheeljack couldn't believe Trailbreaker had intended the offer as a strictly platonic one. It wasn't outside the realm of possibility; Trailbreaker had indicated he'd done the same thing with Hound, whom he'd identified as 'just a friend.' But he'd also admitted to having interfaced with Hound, once upon a time...

The other hand slid down his chassis to join the first, dipping into the seam on the opposite side.

He recalled the light, teasing strokes of the brush moving over his plating. That had been nice.

His fingers continued their steady motion, sliding back and forth as arched into them, leaning further back in his chair.

But had it been intentional? Could he have misread the situation? No, it _had_ to have been deliberate. There was no other logical explanation. Trailbreaker had _clearly_ wanted to –

The sharp _click-whirr_ of his cooling fans switching on startled him out of his reverie. To his dismay, he discovered that his core temperature had risen significantly over the course of his musings, and his fingers were –

He jerked his hands away from himself hastily. His plating was hot, but not dangerously so; nevertheless Wheeljack reacted as if he'd been burned. He panted through his intakes, trying to rapidly cool his overheated core.

A chaotic blend of conflicting emotions assailed him – distaste, arousal, revulsion, longing, confusion, loneliness, despair, disgust. His fuel tank churned; his spark fluttered.

Great Cybertron, what the frag was _wrong_ with him?

A mild charge had built up in his circuits, leaving him feeling restless. A part of him wanted to finish what he'd started. Another part was horrified he'd started at all.

He'd never had any issues with self-service before. Sometimes he even preferred it to interfacing – it was less complicated, more convenient. If he craved an emotional connection, he'd seek out a suitable partner, but for the times when he just wanted to relax himself with a quick overload, Wheeljack had no compunctions about tweaking a few wires and tripping a few sensors to get there.

But now the act was no longer relaxing. There were too many uncomfortable associations, too many conflicting emotions involved to even contemplate it. He couldn't bring himself to finish. He didn't dare attempt to enter recharge in his present state.

In the end, he simply sat, alone in the dark, waiting for his systems to normalize.


End file.
